FEDERATION MORNING
by khaki knight
Summary: Post-SO2: The battle for Expel had just begun.
1. Crisis Managment

FEDERATION MORNING

_**FEDERATION MORNING**_

_An exercise in resurrecting __**Star Ocean: The Second Story **__for all you young whippersnappers, as brought to you by khaki knight._

_Disclaimer: __**Star Ocean **__and characters, related ideas, etc. are the legal property of __**tri-Ace/Square-Enix**__. Characters, etc. are only borrowed for what I hope will be entertainment purposes. Also, the closest I've come to making money with this thing is thinking about it at work, and the project itself is 100 profit free – honest! This disclaimer applies to the entire work. Insert more legal jargon here if it will keep me from facing a lawsuit. Pear into peaches!_

**OOO**

**PRELUDE: CRISIS MANAGEMENT**

**October 10th, 366 SD  
1213 EST (earth standard time)  
EFS _Arbiter_, 6 days out from the Ark System**

Admiral William G. Tilgrem, EFS _Arbiter_, had seen better days.

He knew this fact as well as he knew his reflection, he mused as he looked out the view port in his ready room. His reflection stared back—that same solidly built frame with perhaps a little bit more paunch in the gut than he would have liked, same balding sandy brown hair and bushy beard—impassive but with a hint of frustration just welling under the surface.

Just last week, for example—_those_ had been better days. Then, he was still quite contentedly on a long-over due vacation on Iridian VI. It was an altogether nice little resort planet, even if it had only been terraformed and settled in the last ten years. There, he had nothing but relaxing mornings on the beach with his wife, and evenings in the bungalow watching the World Series. It was nice to remember that there were things in life besides fleet maneuvers and after-action reports; it was nice to relax without the burdens of command wearing him down.

(Speaking of the World Series, the Chicago Cubs led the series 3-1 over the Phobos Mistwalkers. All the odds makers had the Cubs winning in five—most people, in fact, were already saying it would be another generation before a Mars team could take the pennant. Tilgrem, though, still had faith that the Mistwalkers could come back in the last three games.)

His vacation had been so relaxing, in fact, that he had actually been asleep when the message had come in. His wife woke him up, and he was just able to blearily make out a rumpled junior officer across the comm. Admiral Tilgrem even remembered what his first words to the officer were: "This better be _very _important, Lieutenant."

It was... It was all _too _important. 'The _Calnus_ has been destroyed," the shell-shocked officer had reported without preamble in a dead tone. "All hands—including Admiral Kenni—lost."

_That _ended his vacation.

He had digested this news in his bathrobe, his wife already asleep again in the other room. The _Calnus_ had, under Admiral Kenni's orders, deviated—rather, _delayed _for nearly a month—from its original survey course, remaining in the Ark system. Admiral Kenni had apparently looking for a missing crewmember, or so had said the last report to FleetCom from the _Calnus_.

The _Calnus _never reported in after that—no distress signal, but no contact either. After a few weeks, FleetCom had dispatched the EFS _Hornet_ to check on the errant _Calnus_. And that's when they had discovered the ruins of a combat explorer near the edge of the Ark system...

For the time being, the _Calnus_' destruction was being kept under wraps; the loss of a war hero like Admiral Ronixis Kenni was massive blow, especially with rumors of Lesonia rearming. Only a few ships were being dispatched to investigate the mysterious circumstances of the ship's destruction.

And so it was that within hours Admiral Tilgrem had caught a shuttle back to Earth and was on the bridge of his flagship, the EFS _Arbiter_, headed to the quiet and altogether desolate corner of the Ark system were Admiral Kenni... The entire way there, Tilgrem had been haunted with images of his departed friend. The two of them had met during their academy days (back when they were simply Will and Roni), and had been close ever since. It was hard to imagine ever-serious Ronixis dead, and they say his son had just been assigned to his command and—

_I've definitely seen better days_, Tilgrem reflected, as the _Arbiter _slipped quietly through space.

**OOO**

**October 16th, 366 SD  
0825 EST (earth standard time)  
EFS _Arbiter_, in orbit around Ark III**

The admiral was on the bridge as the _Arbiter_ pulled into orbit around Ark III (the only habitable planet in the system). The deceptively peaceful green planet—its yellow primary star hanging far back behind it—seemed to be a crude counterpoint to the... unfortunate news that had called Tilgrem and the _Arbiter_ to the region.

His communication officer turned back to face him. "Admiral, Captain Fillmore of the _Independence_, and Captain Hayden of the _Hornet_ are both hailing us."

The admiral nodded. "Onscreen."

The main screen's image of Ark III vanished and was replaced with a split screen of a tired looking black man with a large mustache—Captain Fillmore—and a petite woman with blonde hair—Captain Hayden. "Admiral," Captain Fillmore began, nodding. "It's good to see you, sir."

Captain Hayden, looking wan, nodded as well. "Admiral," she said simply. Her expression looked preoccupied.

Admiral Tilgrem nodded back. "Were it only under better conditions... What have you found?"

"Nothing's making sense, sir," Captain Fillmore began. "We've found the... wreckage, but the damage is like nothing we've ever seen before. Captain Hayden and the _Hornet_ have been running non-stop scans, and if their analysis is correct..."

"Go on," Tilgrem prompted.

Captain Hayden's expression still hadn't cleared. "Perhaps, Admiral Tilgrem, it would be better if you saw the data for yourself, sir," she finally offered. Tilgrem nodded, and Hayden keyed something into the arm of her command chair.

After a few moments, Tilgrem checked his personal screen. He blinked, rubbed his eyes, and then blinked again. "That... That's not possible." He turned back to face Captain Hayden. "If this is right, the _Calnus_ was destroyed by a sustained energy burst magnitude _1.6_ in strength." The data was all there: blast scoring, burns in the carbonic alloy on the hull, the shield generators simply burned out from the inside as they overloaded...

But it didn't make any _sense_! _The best engineers in the Federation can manage to create a magnitude .7 burst for a microsecond in a lab_, Tilgrem thought,_ This can't..._ For the next several seconds, he simply stared at the data hoping that it would magically somehow start to make sense. He was sorely disappointed.

"Admiral... there's more." Fillmore seemed to take a deep breath. "The orbit of Ark III has... _changed_."

"Changed," Tilgrem repeated dubiously.

Fillmore nodded, looking intensely frustrated. "It's almost as if it just... _stopped moving_ for nearly two months! All our sensor data says that the northern hemisphere should be well into fall by now, but it seems that summer is just now coming to an end."

"That has to be a mistake," Tilgrem answered automatically. Putting aside the impossibility of a mag-1.6 energy burst, there was _nothing_ that Will Tilgrem could think of which could simply _stall_ a planet's orbit.

"I can send the data over," Captain Fillmore suggested. "Maybe your sciences division can make more sense of it than we could—it's been driving my officers crazy."

Tilgrem just nodded. "That's fine." Fillmore nodded to one of his officers off screen. Within seconds the data had reached the _Arbiter_'sbridge. "Commander Philips, get the data down to Astrophysics..."

His XO, Commander Philips, nodded and quickly pulled free a tablet from his console at the bridge's secondary command position. "Should I assign any other teams to this?" he asked as he stood.

Tilgrem bowed his for a moment. "No," he said finally. "Have all other science and engineering teams work on analysis and recovery of the _Calnus_." Commander Philips nodded, saluting shortly before heading for the bridge's main hatch.

Those mysteries aside, there was one more... mundane matter that had to be discussed, though it was something that he was loathe to bring up. He closed his eyes. "Have we... recovered the remains of the admiral and his son?" Tilgrem finally asked, the words tasting like ashes in his mouth.

Captain Hayden nodded, looking grim. "We haven't yet found the remains of his son, but the admiral... Recovery operations began on the bridge. He was... What was left—" Hayden coughed uncomfortably. "Well, I suppose you can imagine," she finished quickly.

"All right," Admiral Tilgrem started, trying not to do that very thing. "All crew members," he resumed, speaking to his bridge crew as well as the two captains on his main screen, "double duty shifts. I'd like to have something a little more _substantial_ than an unexplainable magnitude 1.6 energy discharge and a months-delayed orbit before the _Valkyrie_ gets here."

Captain Hayden's already morose expression grew even darker. "Then, Captain Silvestoli-Kenni will be..."

Tilgrem, looking positively miserable, nodded. "That's right. And I'd like to be able to tell her just why her husband died here," he said quietly. "God knows she'll need the closure..."

**OOO**

**October 16th, 366 SD  
1346 EST (earth standard time)  
EFS _Valkyrie_, 3 days from the Ark System**

Captain Iria Silvestoli-Kenni had always prided herself as a strong woman. It was a quality that she constantly and determinedly worked to cultivate in herself. And the results were hard to argue with: graduated top of her class at the academy, assigned to a deep space vessel on her first posting, XO on a combat explorer by 23, captain of her own battleship by 26. All that, and she still somehow found time to rear a son.

But the moment the news had reached her—the _Calnus _destroyed, her husband and son lost on what was supposed to be a simple and quiet survey mission—all of that effort and training had nearly cracked right there on the bridge. It was only though a sheer force of will that she had managed to croak out orders—Ark system, maximum warp, any further notices from FleetCom be _damned_—before rigidly leaving the bridge and locking herself in her ready room.

Ronixis once told her that a captain has to project the image of strength, even if they don't always feel it.

(It felt like a lifetime ago; if she remembered correctly, he told her that the night before Ise had blown up).

And that was why Captain Iria Silvestoli-Kenni—decorated war hero, respected fleet commander, and venerated soldier—was sitting alone in her ready room bawling her eyes out like she hadn't in years while her EFS _Valkyrie _sped on through the ocean of stars...

**OOO**

**October 19th, 366 SD  
0453 EST (earth standard time)  
_Arbiter _Task Group, Ark System**

For the second time in a month, the comm. rudely interrupted Admiral Tilgrem's sleep. Groggily pulling on his uniform jacket (exhausted from pitching in with scans and analysis, he had only managed to take it and his boots off before collapsing in bed) he slumped down into his chair. "Yes."

It was Commander Philips, somehow looking absurdly fresh and chipper despite the hour. "Admiral. I'm sorry to disturb you, but I thought this was something you would want to see right away." Philips' image smoothly slid down to a smaller frame in the right corner, as the rest of Tilgrem's screen switched to a topographical map of Ark III. "Further scans of the planet have picked up this." A red and white icon suddenly blinked into life near the center of the main continent.

"Is that a... ship?" Tilgrem asked.

Commander Philips nodded. "Yessir. And it just broke orbit fifteen minutes ago."

_That_ chased the last traces of sleep from Tilgrem's mind. "_What_!?" The rabbit hole was only growing deeper... _Ark III is an underdeveloped planet classified at 17__th__ century technology at _best_! _the admiral thought wildly. _The only way to explain a _ship _would be—_ Hope suddenly rose in his chest. "I'm on my way to the bridge," he said before killing the connection and rushing to get his boots on.

Less than five minutes later, Admiral Tilgrem strode onto the bridge. "Do we have a visual on the ship?" he asked before even dropping into his command chair.

"Yes, sir," his operations officer answered.

"Onscreen," Tilgrem ordered immediately. His enthusiasm was dampened only seconds later, however, when he realized he wasn't looking at a federation shuttle or escape pod. The craft was sleek, a green and gray cutter built for speed—most importantly _non-military_. The admiral struggled to suppress a sigh of defeat. "Do we have an ID on that ship?" he asked, rubbing his eyes tiredly.

His operations officer brought up the registry on his console. He pushed his glasses back into place, leaning forward. "The _Taru Moore_," he started as he read carefully, "registered out of Tetragenesis to an Ernest Raviede." The ops officer frowned. "Sorry, make that a _Dr. _Ernest Raviede."

"Hail them," the admiral ordered, "perhaps they saw something." His expression soured. "At the very least, we'll have to issue them a citation for a UP3 violation in—"

"Actually, Admiral," his communications officer broke in, "they're hailing _us_, sir."

Admiral Tilgrem frowned, shifting uneasily in his chair. _Rather presumptuous of some UP-jumpers. _"Put it up," Tilgrem ordered. "Tetragenesis cutter _Taru Moore_," Tilgrem began, with every intention of letting the little Tetragenesis cutter know how much trouble they were in, "this is Admiral William Tilgrem of—" he abruptly cut himself off.

The main screen had switched to a view of the _Taru Moore_'s tiny bridge, and Admiral Tilgrem stared in something very close to slack-jawed surprise. There—leaning forward from behind the two Tetrageniot pilots, sitting next to what he supposed had to be a native of Ark III with blue hair and pointy ears—was an honest to god _human_ who, even more importantly, was wearing a battered Federation uniform.

"This is Ensign Claude C. Kenni," the young officer began, "Space Force registry 76549-7, assigned to the EFS _Calnus_. I am in need of assistance..."

**OOO**

**0516 EST (earth standard time)  
_Arbiter _Main Transporter**

Tilgrem practically raced to the transporter room... Even Commander Philips (Tilgrem hoped more than knew) was having a bit of trouble keeping up with his suddenly altogether spry superior officer as they raced down the _Arbiter_'s long corridors, dashing past confused looking junior officers.

Their haste paid off, as the two just crossed into the room just in time to feel the familiar tingle of an active transport. Tilgrem straightened his uniform...

...just as he saw three people materialize on the transporter pads: the female Tetrageniot, the female native, and the boy-child that had reappeared out of nowhere like a ghost.

Though, Tilgrem considered, as he eyed the ensign, 'boy-child' might not be the correct description anymore. It honestly looked like Ensign Kenni had been through a war—and it wasn't just the disreputable condition of his uniform Tilgrem was talking about either. The 'boy' looked lethal, with a retro-looking sword strapped to his back, armor obvious just under his uniform, and a phase gun belted to his hip. And his eyes...

The ensign looked a little overwhelmed for a moment (had he been expecting the Admiral—not to mention the half dozen Federation security guards arrayed on the outskirts of the transporter room—to be there waiting for him?), before his attention snapped back to Tilgrem. After a too-long beat, Ensign Kenni straightened up, immediately dropping into a salute. It was an altogether sloppy affair—Ensign Kenni clearly hadn't given one in a while. "Admiral, Sir."

Tilgrem accepted the gesture anyway, returning the salute. "Welcome aboard, Ensign Kenni. At ease." Claude dropped into an equally rusty rest stance. He seemed at a loss for anything to say. Tilgrem broke into a smile. "Damn good to see you, son," Tilgrem said suddenly, ignoring the sudden look of concern from Philips. "Damn good."

"Admiral," Philips suddenly interjected, a hint of a warning in his tone.

Tilgrem looked rankled. "I know, I know," he muttered irritably. The truth was they didn't know _anything_ for certain—Ensign Kenni was anything from a beleaguered survivor to the very reason why the _Calnus _was orbiting in pieces around Ark III. "I'm just glad that _someone _survived, Philips," he chided. But Tilgrem couldn't help but notice the sudden stricken look on Ensign Kenni's face. _This is going to be an interesting debriefing..._ the Admiral thought.

"Your... friends?" Tilgrem asked as he nodded to the two unsure looking women behind him. Of the two, the blonde tetrageniot seemed the most at ease (although her hands seemed to keep twitching, as if reaching for a weapon that she didn't have with her). The blue-haired Ark III native seemed to be somewhat awed, though, Tilgrem noted, her eyes were more focused on the (significantly armed) security team than what had to be the hyper technology all around her.

"Ah, right, Admiral," he began. "This is Rena Lanford," the ensign elaborated, nodding to the girl from Ark III, "She's a native of Expel."

Tilgrem frowned. "Expel?"

The ensign frowned. "Er, the planet below. I guess it'd be..." his expression scrunched up as he thought.

"Ark III," Tilgrem supplied.

"Right, Ark III—but the locals call it Expel." And here Ensign Kenni met Tilgrem's arched eyebrow, acknowledging the flagrant UP3 violation.

The ensign turned his attention to the tetrageniot. "And this is Opera... er," he stalled, sounding unsure.

The two of them exchanged what appeared to be a significant glance. After a moment, "Opera Lesat," he finished, placing perhaps a bit too much emphasis on her last name. Tilgrem frowned. _She looks vaguely familiar..._

Commander Philips cleared his throat lightly. Tilgrem rolled his eyes. "Right, right," he muttered. "Ensign Kenni, I get the feeling we have a lot to discuss. I'm going to ask you to come with Commander Philips and me to the conference room for a formal debriefing with the senior staff." He glanced to the ensign's two companions. "Your... _allies_ here," he started, choosing his words carefully, "will be shown to some quarters to get some rest."

Ensign Kenni glanced at the two ladies, and for a long moment said nothing. Finally, with a hint of hesitation in his expression, he nodded.

"Claude!" his two companions protested at almost the same moment.

He attempted (with a questionable amount of success) to wave off their concerns with a gesture. "It'll be okay," he answered soothingly. "Opera, keep an eye on Rena, okay?" The tetrageniot nodded, and Tilgrem couldn't help but notice that she eyed the security guards distrustfully.

"Johnson, Hews," Commander Philips began, "Please escourt Ms. Lanford and Ms. Lesat to a stateroom." Two of the security guards nodded, and stepped forward.

"Ensign Kenni, if you'll follow us." Without waiting, Admiral Tilgrem turned and marched out of the transporter room.

**OOO**

**1013 EST (earth standard time)  
_Arbiter _Conference Room**

"I just want to warn you," Admiral Tilgrem began, "that we'll have the recorder on for this preliminary debrief." After a half second, he broke into a grin. "It's just a formality, so try not to be too nervous about it."

By the calm expression on Ensign Kenni's face, it looked as if that had been the farthest thing on his mind. "Of course," he answered demurely.

"I'd like to begin," Commander Philips started at the admiral's nod, "with what exactly happened at planet FSP-24Y65 – currently designated Milokeenia."

Ensign Kenni took a deep breath. If he had been expecting such a blunt question, it was hard to tell. He stared down at the dull metal shine of the conference room table as he gathered his thoughts. "It started like any other mission," he began. "We had detected a set of ruins on the planet surface, and Da—"

And here the ensign flinched before gathering himself again. "_Admiral Kenni_ had organized an away team to explore it.

"I was assigned to the team, and while in the ruins, I was... incautious while near a still active artifact," he continued bluntly. "And from there I was transported from Milokeenia to the Ark system in the blink of an eye."

Philips and Tilgrem exchanged looks. The ensign had related the events in a calm and straight-forward manner, but it was still hard to swallow. _A transporter capable of warping at least 126 AU_? Tilgrem thought. _That's utterly_— The thought died mid-sentence. Considering the other oddities in and around Ark III, he supposed finally that he shouldn't have been _that _surprised.

And of course, Ensign Kenni's tale only grew stranger as it continued.

About two hours later, Ensign Kenni's tale had finished. Philips and Tilgrem—who had remained silent but for the occasional clarifying question—exchanged looks again.

"Let me get this straight," Admiral Tilgrem began. "Four billion years ago—and that's _billion_ with a b—a technologically advanced society ruled most of the known cluster with an iron fist. But when there were rebellions against their not-so-benevolent rule, a project to create heraldry-infused super soldiers went awry when the director went mad. And they destroyed the _Calnus _in the opening salvo in their campaign to _destroy _the entire universe."

"I realize it must sound ludicrous," Ensign Kenni answered.

"I'll say," Commander Philips interjected, his expression cold. "You expect us to believe _that_!?" he demanded.

Admiral Tilgrem held up a hand, trying to get Philips to restrain himself somewhat. "What the commander is _trying _to say," Tilgrem began pointedly, glancing at Philips, "is that while we don't necessarily reject what you've told us, we're going to need a bit more evidence."

Ensign Kenni looked as if he expected as much. "Of course." And here he drew the retro sword belted at his hip. Tilgrem saw Philips stiffen for a moment, only to relax when the ensign laid it flat on the table. "You'll find that this weapon is emitting a peculiar anti-matter based field."

Now it was Tilgrem's turn to look apprehensive. "_Anti-matter_?" he asked quickly, casting another wary look at the weapon. It didn't look like it was about to explode and annihilate itself and half the all too mundane matter of the _Arbiter _along with it.

Ensign Kenni looked nonplussed. "It's something that the Nedians cooked up for us. It was the only way to battle the Ten Wise Men. We have a few other OPA-like relics with us, as well.

"Furthermore, Rena—" Ensign Kenni balked for a second, "_Ms. Lanford_," he corrected, looking vaguely nervous, "as well as two other of my companions are 100 _Nedian_, and unlike any other race the Federation's encountered in the region."

_That _answered a few questions. Between the beginning of the debriefing and the end, several of Tilgrem's staff had informed him via his command tablet of oddities on Ms. Lanford's bioform readings. Specifically how they were completely unlike _any _other readings from Ark III.

A tone suddenly echoed through the conference room. "Admiral Tilgrem, Admiral Tilgrem, please contact the bridge immediately."

Tilgrem's eyes narrowed. "What now...?" he wondered aloud, before keying his personal comm. "Tilgrem here," he answered.

"Admiral, the EFS _Valkyrie _has just arrived in Arkspace, and Captain Silvestoli-Kenni is requesting to speak with _Arbiter-_Actual."

At this Ensign Kenni perked up. Tilgrem nodded. "Go ahead and put her through."

"Yessir," the bridge tech. answered.

The comm. lapsed into silence before... "Admiral Tilgrem?"

"Captain Silvestoli-Kenni, welcome to Arkspace."

"Permission to come aboard?" Captain Kenni asked, getting right to the point.

"Granted," he answered automatically. "And Captain? I suggest you come to the conference room as soon as you're aboard..." He glanced over at Ensign Kenni. "I think we have someone here you'll want to see straight away..."

Judging by the stunned silence on Captain Silvestoli's end of the comm., it seemed Tilgrem's comment had the effect he had wanted. She had, of course, been briefed on the recovery procedure, and knew that there was only _one _crew member unaccounted for... "I'm on my way," she declared hastily (the hesitance and yet desire to believe clear in her voice), before the connection was cut.

Admiral Tilgrem took advantage of the silence following to turn back to Ensign Kenni. "While we still work to do on... _confirming_ your story, there are other oddities in and around Ark III that you'll undoubtedly be more familiar with than us. Will you be willing to cooperate with us further on the investigation?" he asked. He was too polite to actually ask, but the subtext to the question was obvious: _Or will you try to sneak back and go native on Expel instead?_

"I'll do anything I can to help the people down on Expel," the ensign responded.

Tilgrem paused for a moment, reappraising the ensign. He sounded almost mature beyond his years. "That's excellent to hear, Ensign," Tilgrem began. "We'll have to start—"

He was cut off as the door to the conference room slid open and Captain Ira Silvestoli-Kenni rushed in. "Where is he?" she asked immediately, before she had even a chance to scan the room properly. Seconds later, her gaze settled on Claude (already half out of his seat). "Claude!" she shouted, tears already starting to form in her eyes.

"Mom," Claude breathed, relief, sadness, and a deep tiredness all mingling in his voice.

As the two embraced, Admiral Tilgrem nodded to Commander Philips. "I think that's all we need for now," he said quietly. Commander Philips looked as if he might have disagreed, but another look at the heartfelt reunion made him hesitate. Nodding to the rest of the staff present, they all quietly slipped out of the room, leaving the mother and son to their reunion.

Just outside the conference room, Philips pulled Tilgrem aside. "Sir, you don't really _buy _that story, do you?" he asked.

Tilgrem shrugged. "For the time being, we don't have enough information to make _any _sort of judgment, Commander. All I do know," he continued, suddenly looking wearier by the second, "is that this is eventually going to make one _hell_ of a report to FleetCom..."

**OOO**

**Arcadian 92nd, 1344 UCEC (United Church of Expel Calendar)  
Midday  
Port of New Clik, Kingdom of Cross, Expel**

Ketil scratched his nose, as he perched on the old barrel near the new harbor. The sounds of carpenters filled the air, wooden mallets pounding away at more new buildings and expanding the docks. He swayed slightly as he closed his eyes, enjoying the salty breeze. _It's a nice day... _he thought happily.

This tranquil moment was rudely interrupted, however, by the growling of his stomach. His eyes popped open, and he started to scowl. He glanced up and down the paved boulevard, scanning for any sign of his posse. _Looks like I'm on my own for lunch again... _he thought, as he hopped from the barrel. _Never around when I need them_...

He walked along the path down the hill, heading roughly for the docks. Most of the merchants and grocers gathered down a few alleys off Clik's main square nowadays, and it was there that Ketil hurried to. Ketil didn't bother browsing—instead he made a beeline for the first stall (a baker, with fresh loaves aligned neatly on a rack covered with white cloth) and picked out the first loaf he could reach.

For a brief moment—as he stood before the stall with the bread in his hands and the baker seemingly distracted with something or other behind the counter—he contemplated just stuffing the bread under his shirt and bolting. It was nothing he hadn't done a million times before, after all.

The urge, however, passed after a moment. The lessons a certain ensign and healer had taught him remained even months later, he was proud to say. Ketil instead quickly shoved his hand into his pocket and scooped out the appropriate amount of change. The baker eyed him suspiciously for a moment, before taking the money and seeming contented.

Ketil tore into the loaf as he wandered back towards New Clik's main square. It was fresh, but that was about its only virtue. The bread was tasteless and surprisingly tough; even so, Ketil was still glad to have it. Since The Wave, times had been rough. Admittedly, things were finally getting better—the sounds of carpenters only the most obvious sign of the turnaround—but it would be awhile before certain things (such as food quality) got back to where they had been.

The growling of his stomach settled for the time being, Ketil decided on a whim to head down all the way to the harbor. Much to his delight, he found another barrel. He quickly hopped on top of it. He sighed. "Yeah... A nice day."

He had heard of monster attacks continuing to rise (especially across most of Lacour) but so far Cross—doubly true for a little quiet region like Clik—had been spared much of the chaos. Sure, the occasional wild dog (seeming to writhe with madness and _something else _in its eyes) would be found sniffing around near the edges of town, but so far—

The thought died in mid-sentence, as Ketil thought he saw something in the water—several blue humps breaking the surface for a moment, before they vanished. Panicking, he quickly glanced around. No one in the area had apparently seen anything out of the ordinary.

"Now I'm starting to lose it..." he murmured with a half-smirk, playfully knocking a fist against his temple. "Maybe its best that they—"

Another chill raced along his spine as Ketil watched the bumps return, at least ten, possibly more. And then, almost as one, the humps started to head for the beach. "W-what are they!?" Ketil called out, as he scrambled to get back to his feet, all the while watching as odd blue creatures slowly shambled out of the water and up along the beach.

But Ketil's fear soon gave way to confusion, as the two creatures in the lead (looking absurdly like the cartoon dolphins from a storybook he read as an infant) came to a stop just a few yards short of him. The two exchanged glances, then one took another step forward.

"Whaeet ess up, dood?"

**OOO**

**October 25th, 366 SD  
1544 EST (earth standard time)  
_Arbiter _Task Group, Ark System**

Conditions on the ground, Admiral Tilgrem soon discovered, were if anything _worse _than what Ensign Kenni had explained during that long discussion in the _Arbiter_'s conference room. That much was clear from even the _Arbiter_'s initial scans. According to Ensign Kenni, the infected creatures had had leadership—_direction_—before, toppling one kingdom and pressing against another. But with that leadership gone, they were attacking indiscriminately.

And the 'beasts' kept appearing! His science teams were baffled and at a complete loss at how to explain it: randomly, across the planet, wide swaths of animals would suddenly turn violent. There seemed to be no discernable patter—no virus to track, no wind conditions spreading spores... Nothing! The closest thing to an explanation anyone in the taskgroup hadto an explanation was, effectively, 'the OPA did it.'

But that OPA was now missing (vanished along with what Ensign Kenni called 'Energy Nede,' another can of worms Tilgrem didn't look forward to investigating). Having left nothing behind but only a few odd (but ultimately harmless) readings at the top of the technologically-out-of-place tower in "El," they effectively had nothing to go on... Nor any explanation of why the process was still continuing!

Any hope of mighty Federation science coming up with a quick and dirty solution was rapidly vanishing. Tilgrem felt a headache coming on.

For the time being, the highest concentrations of the beasts were across the continents Ensign Kenni had identified as El and Lacour, but Tilgrem knew it would only be a few more months before levels in Cross would be the same. Those rumors of some new creatures rising from the seas in Northern Cross seemed to be only the beginning!

_If we just had some more _time_, just to get our heads around what was_—

As if the gods were listening in to his thoughts, one of the bridge's sensor stations began to emit a warning. "Admiral," one of Tilgrem's bridge officers began, interrupting his reverie, "according to our sensors, a group of hostiles is moving en masse against a population center on the eastern landmass."

Ensign Kenni was dashed over to the officer's station in a heartbeat, scanning the geographic data on the screen. He nearly swore. "They're pressing against Lacour again..." he muttered to himself, almost disbelieving. "They're way past the old front line..."

"Size and disposition," Philips automatically directed the tactical officer. "Gimme threat levels."

Of course, traditional Federation threat assessments weren't designed for unorthodox situations such as these. "Hard to tell, sir," the tactical officer answered seconds later, his eyes scanning the tactical plot on his screen. "The mass is chaotic and undisciplined, but there are a lot of them... two, maybe three thousand, all heading south." The office made an irritated sound, shaking his head. "It's a mess down there—individual threat levels are next to impossible to establish. No weapons or other tools from what I can see."

"That won't matter much for them," Ensign Kenni said authoritatively, his eyes locked on the same tactical plot. "Whatever's happened to those creatures down there, they'll fight like demons now." He turned his attention back to the admiral. "Sir, the Lacour army is exhausted. They're not going to be able to hold out against something like that. We've got to send reinforcements as soon as possible."

"Absolutely not!" Commander Philips snapped immediately, staring at the ensign has if he had completely taken leave of his senses. "Commit boots to the ground on an underdeveloped planet!? Are you _insane_!?"

"We can't just ignore the suffering of those people down there!" Ensign Kenni countered immediately, his gaze defiantly flipping back and forth between Philips and Tilgrem, apparently forgetting he was addressing a pair of superior officers...

...even as his mother Captain placed a restraining hand on his shoulder. "Claude," she reprimanded quietly. Ensign Kenni, though it was clear on his face he wanted to do _anything _else, forced himself to calm down, though his hands remained clenched by his side.

With an approving nod to herself at Ensign Kenni's concerted effort at control, she turned her attention to Admiral Tilgrem. "Admiral, what my son is _trying_ to say is that the entire situation is _hardly_ normal. Whatever's going on down there, it was caused by an OPA from a now-dead civilization, several generations beyond even _our_ technology." She shifted, planting her hands on her hips. "That's hardly a fair fight for those Expellians, isn't it?"

"Ensign Kenni _claims_ it was an OPA," Commander Philips started, taking his role as devil's advocate very seriously, "with little more evidence that a few admittedly strange hand weapons and other—only possibly related—phenomenon in the local sector." He spread his hands. "As terrible as what's happened here is, we can't just throw the entire UP3 out the window!"

Both sides of the argument weighed heavily on Tilgrem's mind, as he closed his eyes, his chin resting on his thumb and forefinger in thought. He had the sinking feeling that the decision he was being asked to make was about seven scales above his pay grade (his sense of the maudlin having been sharpened by the events of the past two and a half weeks)...

But even so... when he had enlisted in the Federation Space Forces, he had made certain vows he wasn't about to break.

"Commander," Tilgrem began, "we picked up Colonel Morris and his detachment of the 742nd Marine Expeditionary at Federation Station #8, correct?"

"Yes..." Commander Philips began, hesitantly.

Admiral Tilgrem nodded. "Get the Colonel on the horn, and tell him to get his men ready. He's going to have a hell of a task in front of him."

Commander Philips looked less than pleased, but the admiral's orders were the admiral's orders. "Yessir."

Ensign Kenni looked immediately relieved. But before long, a steely look of determination stole onto his face. "Admiral, I'd like to accompany the marine detachment." Admiral Tilgrem swiveled his chair to affix the ensign with an even stare. "The King there knows me. They'll need me down there to assure the locals we're trying to help."

_Kid reminds me a lot of Ronixis, _Tilgrem thought. Hadn't it been Ronixis that had stolen his beloved _Calnus_ to help an underdeveloped planet in trouble? "If you're going down," Tilgrem started, "I'd suggest you get that phase gun recharged first," he said, gesturing to the battered and clearly inoperative pistol belted next to Claude's sword. Tilgrem swiveled his chair back to face the main screen, still displaying the tactical map of Lacour City and its environs. "And try not to get yourself killed—we're going to need your knowledge of Ar—no, Expel."

Ensign Kenni, beaming, saluted before he and his mother dashed from the bridge.

The bridge began to thrum with activity. Tilgrem settled back in his chair, his fingers laced and hovering just before his chin. His eyebrow arched as he noticed his XO, hovering near his command chair. "Yes, Commander Philips?" he asked slowly.

Commander Philips' expression might've given one the impression that he had been recently sucking on lemons. "Admiral..." he started quietly, just low enough for Tilgrem to hear but (hopefully) none of the rest of the bridge. "Admiral, I'm afraid that I have to go _on record _as _strongly _objecting to this deployment."

Tilgrem levelly met Philips' gaze for a long moment. "Noted," he said finally, turning his attention back to the main tactical screen.

Commander Philips blinked in disbelief for a few moments, before realizing he had been in effect dismissed. "_Admiral_," Philips began again in earnest, "Sir, I don't think you've _fully _considered all the implications that this deployment is going to—"

"Why play so coy, Commander Philips?" Tilgrem asked, breaking into Philips' tirade. "We could probably just make a list. Let's see..." And here Tilgrem made a show of stroking his beard. "First of all, starting with the more mundane, once the conglomerates in the Federation get wind of this and start salivating at the prospect of so many new markets," Admiral Tilgrem began, a hint of frustration in his voice, "they'll begin a nonstop lobbying campaign for 'market expansion rights,' underdeveloped planet or not.

"Oh, and we can't forget the new rumors that Lesonia is remilitarizing _again_. If _that_ turns out to be true, sending troops to protect some underdeveloped planet is a waste of valuable combat resources that we might end up needing.

"Not to mention that making the decision to deploy troops to an undeveloped planet—making it a de facto monitored planet—is several pay grades above my rank."

Commander Philips looked a little overwhelmed. "Y-yes," he said shakily, perhaps having underestimated how much thought Tilgrem had put into the decision. "I'd imagine that those would be the sorts of things..."

The admiral leaned back. "Even with all that in mind," Tilgrem started, "I still think intervening is the right call," he finished gravely. Internally however... _Here's hoping I'm right_, he worried.

He vaguely wondered what history would make of his decision.

**END PRELUDE**

**Author's Note**:

Please note, that all of the point of view characters in the prelude will _not _be point of view characters in subsequent chapters, except for Iria (so, apologies to those rabid Ketil and Tilgrem fans?). The goal of the Prelude is to expand the SO-verse, specifically in regard to how insane the Ark system must have looked to the Federation (and, I guess, even the residents of Expel) following the events of SO2.

From here on out, though, you can expect the major thrust of the narrative to be carried by characters that will probably be a lot like long lost friends to you like-minded hardcore SO2 fans...

Oh, and before I forget: obviously, expect spoilers. Lots and lots of spoilers (and mostly for SO2). But don't be surprised if I casually reference things from Star Ocean: Bluesphere (the surprisingly deep GBC sequel to SO2) or even SO3.

ALSO: So, Square-Enix has retooled a lot of names of people and organizations for the impending of American release of the SO1 remake -- Ronixis restyled 'Ronyx,' Iria is now 'Ilia,' and the Earth Federation has been redubbed the 'Terran Alliance.' While I suppose I should take Square-Enix's word over that of the fan translated version of the original or the badly translated original American release of SO2, frankly I like the old names better. Sorry for any confusion this may cause.


	2. Homecomings and Departures

**CHAPTER 1: HOMECOMINGS AND DEPARTURES **

**September 5th, 370 SD  
0637 EST (earth standard time)  
FNN Headquarters, New York, North American Administrative District, Earth**

Chisato Madison leaned back in her office's chair, a cup of coffee in one hand and a tablet (from which she read) in the other. She stifled a yawn, then glanced out her office's window. It was fairly early to be in the office, sure—at least for a midday anchor like her. But she was just getting ready for what was coming...

_And besides_, she thought cheerily, as she took another sip of coffee, _hours like this are a cake walk compared to my _last_ job_.

Then again, single-handedly attempting to create, staff, and maintain basic communication infrastructures on Expel—an underdeveloped planet with what the Feddies classified as a '17th century' level technology—hardly qualified as a _job _so much as a lifestyle. Semantics notwithstanding, it was a project that Chisato had devoted every free moment of her life to for over two years.

And she had made real progress, too! It had taken some work, but after only a year and a half a primitive telegraph network had stretched over much of the Cross continent, with plans to expand a mirror network in Lacour. Of course, how to connect Cross and Lacour had been the next major problem to tackle. But the way things had been working out Chisato had been confidant that she and the various organizations (both governmental and private) she was working with would undoubtedly be able to figure something out...

...Or she _had_ felt that way, until she ran afoul of the Expel Joint Military Command. Known as the EXCOM for short, it was the Expel-based headquarters of the Federation Expeditionary Forces. It wasn't that Admiral Tilgrem (the man in charge of EXCOM) ran a particularly autocratic or corrupt administration—even Chisato was convinced of that.

But the combination of a recent story she had filed about major graft in several departments and branches of the EXCOM, as well as providing advanced technologies (in this case, telegraph wires and a few other rudimentary and next-to-primitive elements of basic infrastructure) to a 'special monitored planet' without EXCOM authorization...

Well, those two alone had meant a lot of political pressure coming down on Tilgrem to get Chisato out of the way. At least Tilgrem had been kind enough to see that the 'Chisato Net' was left more or less intact. _And _okay her permit to relocate to Earth, even with certain... _holes _in her personal history and paperwork. (Her Nedian passport was not one of the things she had thought to take with her before Energy Nede blew up... though, now that she thought about it, not that it would have done all that much good anyway.)

Ah, Earth. Sometimes, at night, Chisato could look out her window and almost imagine she was back on Nede again... The Federation's technology wasn't quite up to par with mighty Nede's, but in many ways it wasn't _that _far removed.

On the other hand, there was always something to be said for Expel. That little green orb had a certain rough and pristine beauty the crowded, high tech cities of Earth and even the historic (if lifeless) vistas of Energy Nede could not match. Yes, Expel had a certain attraction—not diminished even by its plethora of taciturn, prickly, emotionally unavailable and altogether loner swordsmen who just sweep in and out of one's life as if they expected you to always be there, waiting...

Chisato blinked. What had she been thinking about?

Ah, right: _Expel_... which, by no mean coincidence, was the subject of the lead story in the e-version of the morning's _New York Times _saved on her tablet.

Chisato considered the story carefully, letting none of her personal feelings show through (a journalistic skill she practiced whenever she got a chance). "Protestors Push Troop Withdrawals in Federation-Wide Demonstrations," Chisato read to herself. The previous day, in planetary capitals across the Federation, anti-war demonstrators had marched in protest at the continuing Federation military mission on Expel.

"You can't fight a war against a biohazard," she read aloud to her office, "and Expel was never our responsibility in the first place."

"I guess most people aren't buying the military's argument for their continued deployment on Expel," said a voice from the office's doorway.

Chisato grinned and looked up, seeing one of the station's producers, Roger Mallory, looking at her expectantly. He was an easygoing-looking human with small glasses perched on his nose and long blonde hair pulled back into a pony tail. She waved him in. "It seems like they aren't really buying _anything_ the brass is saying," she answered back as he sat down.

Roger shrugged, leaning back. "It's hard for the public to accept their 'greater good' argument when most of the big conglomerates are making a killing outfitting the FEF."

"Did we ever find out if that Ostin Manufacturing contract went through?" Chisato asked, remembering the question which had been nagging her for the past few days.

Roger nodded, his face impassive. "Yeah, the Ostin contract went through." His expression scrunched up. "Actually, so did the Daissault-Zhu bid. _And _the Rajal-Ford bid!"

"I'm beginning to see your point," Chisato said, a little surprised. Her expression hardened—the look of a true newshound. "I think I'll have to talk to the news editors about that..." she said quietly.

The Ostin bid didn't really surprise Chisato—the Joint Chiefs had been planning to award a new contract for next generation battleship development for years now. But the Daissault and Ford bids—for development of next generation in-atmo fighters and heavy treaded transports respectively—were what Chisato _had_ considered longshots. Especially considering that neither was likely to _ever_ see service on the Expel front.

Roger leaned back a bit. "What do _you _make of all this, Chisato?"

"Now, now, my place isn't to editorialize, just to report," Chisato answered automatically.

"Aw, come on Chisato!" Roger pleaded, dropping into what Chisato assumed was his 'suave' tone. "I'm dying to know what you really think about all this. I mean, you're from someplace near the Ark System, aren't you?"

"Something like that," Chisato murmured vaguely. She folded her arms, looking pensive. "Off the record?" she asked.

"Of course," he answered.

"I think the Expel mission is the right thing to do..." she started slowly. "But this profiteering is ridiculous, and clouding the issue." Her expression turned dark. "I fail to see how several trillion allotted for next-gen air superiority fighters and tanks are related to the fighting on Expel at all, for example."

She sighed. "And _none _of this is helped by how vague the military is being about _why _our troops need to be there."

"Such as?" Roger asked.

Chisato nearly went into a long diatribe about the 'sins of the Nedian Empire,' but caught herself at the last moment. "The biohazard we're 'fighting' there wasn't a natural event," she covered smoothly. "I mean, you've heard the theory—as near as the scientists can tell some meteorite," _Or Quadratic Sphere_, she thought wryly, "triggered something planet side—hell, it probably even had something to do with the loss of the _Calnus _as well." _Something, indeed_, Chisato thought tiredly.

She shrugged. "It was a fluke that the Federation stumbled on the situation when it did, but Expel probably doesn't stand a chance without us, and it'd be wrong to abandon them to the whimsy of the universe."

"Whew," Roger said, "I love it when you get all riled up like this," he said cheerily.

The compliment was well placed—it was easy to tell by the sudden blush forming across the bridge of Chisato's nose.

"Are you nervous about the show next week?" Roger asked, smoothly switching topics.

Chisato laced her fingers, pressing her hands down in her lap. "A little," she admitted. "It only seems like a few months ago I got promoted to weekend anchor," she continued. "And even less time since making midday anchor. And now I'm going to be headlining FNN's morning show?"

"Hey, the anchor position for _Federation Morning _couldn't have gone to a more qualified person," Roger assured her.

"Well, thank you for saying so," Chisato said, still looking dubious, "but..."

"Well, if you're still worried about it," Roger started, "we could talk about it some more. Perhaps over dinner, maybe next Friday...?" he asked smoothly.

In fact, he had asked so smoothly, Chisato almost didn't even notice. After a too long beat, she finally made the connection and realized what he was asking, stiffening ever so slightly. "Er..." she answered, as the image of a certain irritable loner swordsman involuntarily flashed through her mind, "I, uh..."

Roger's expression turned softer, only a tiny hint of hurt covered by a relaxed smile. "Hey, no worries," he said dismissively. "Just think about it, okay?" He shifted. "Well, uh, I've got some work to do... I'll talk to you later."

As Roger quietly got up and left the room, Chisato's mind seemed to be trapped between wondering why she had just turned down the interested and altogether very eligible Mr. Mallory, and the image of the last time that stupid loner swordsman had walked away from her.

**OOO**

**Arcadian 64th, 1348 UCEC (United Church of Expel Calendar)  
Midmorning  
South Lacour Temporary Federation Spaceport, Linga, Kingdom of Lacour, Expel**

Ashton Anchors was ancy. And nervous. Now, this was not an uncommon condition for the young swordsman to be in. But it was obvious there was something special and particular about today's discomfort. Even Gyoro and Ururun—two trouble makers if there ever were—were wisely remaining quiet and respectful.

At his side was renowned Linga eccentric Dr. Graft Neuyman. Normally a man bristling with nervous energy—known for fiddling at all hours of the day—even he seemed subdued at the moment, calmly staring at the sky with his hands buried in the pockets of his lab coat. His gaze seemed very far away.

Together, the two men stood on a small hillock overlooking a wide grassy field, surrounded only by several pre-fab metal buildings and staffed by about a dozen Federation officers. It was a surprisingly large operation for southern usually sleepy southern Lacour.

But, at least according to the Federation Brass, Linga University seemed to merit the attention. As one of the few places of higher learning on Expel, LU had been designated one of the main research centers on the problems besetting Expel. There, Federation scientists and native intellectuals and academics raced around the clock to understand and—hopefully—reverse the world-wide pollution causing so much chaos across the planet.

Unfortunately for everyone involved, the results were hardly encouraging. From what Ashton understood, the Linga team had managed to isolate a previous unknown 'radiation' across the planet (Ashton still stumbled over the new word, even in his own mind). Unfortunately, considering how widely dispersed and non-localized this radiation was, it was less of a victory than they had been hoping.

And that didn't even mention how all efforts at neutralization and, possibly more importantly, _shielding _from the radiation had failed miserably.

But such weighty matters were not the cause of Ashton's consternations this morning. No, what was troubling Ashton this morning was something far more mundane and familiar—a girl. _Woman. _Ashton chided himself immediately. _Whatever, _he decided with an internal sigh.

Graft and Ashton stood in silence for another thirty minutes, before a faint hum filled the air. The hum soon strengthened to the roar of a medium sized Federation shuttle. It came to a mid-air stop above the wide grassy field, awkwardly hovering for a long moment as small landing struts slowly sprouted from the sides of the craft. It settled down on those small stubby legs, its engines powering down.

"Well, then," Graft said, shifting nervously again, "I suppose it's time." Without looking back at Ashton, he started down the hill towards the craft.

Ashton followed him, after a deep breath in an effort to psyche himself up. Gyoro and Ururun exchanged looks.

The landing fields were fenced off with aluminum cyclone fencing, the main gate near the unpaved service road running between checkpoints on Lacour's unsecured territories to the north and Linga to the south. A tired looked Federation officer ushered the two through the gate, and—after a quick scan of their passes—bade them wait just next to the entrance. It was a covered waiting area, with several rows of cold metal benches hastily thrown up on plain grass. Ashton and Graft were the only two waiting there for someone.

_Four years since the Federation's been on Expel, and they still haven't built something more permanent here..._ Ashton wondered, as he sat down on a bench with a sour expression.

In truth, he wasn't really _that _upset with the slow pace of future space bureaucracy's infrastructure building. As he cast another glance at Graft (hovering nervously near the edge of the metal awning over the waiting area) he shifted again, before closing his eyes. He attempted to relax his shoulders (more difficult than one would imagine when there were dragons fused to them) then vainly tried several meditation and relaxation techniques.

Though none of them worked—at all—time slowly passed. It was only five minutes, but Ashton would be hard pressed to name five minutes that took as long.

Finally... "Ashton," Graft called.

Ashton opened his eyes; the shuttle was finally off-loading. The passengers were being funneled through a small shack-like checkpoint. The additional wait was something that Ashton hadn't expected, and only added to his agitation. He scanned the long walkway from the hatch on the broad side of the shuttle, up and down and back again, all in the vague hope of catching a hint of blonde hair, or sunglasses, or a blue little robot perched preciously on her head...

No such luck. So Ashton stretched and walked over to stand by Graft, watching as the other passengers slowly filed through the checkpoint and out across the field. Most of them trudged over onto a battered looking, heavy treaded bus (anachronistic to the Federation officers maintaining and driving it—what with its _wheels_—and decidedly futuristic to the native Expellians who had only been introduced to it less than four years ago). Its engine idled as it waited to drive down the long track to LU.

The trickle of passengers coming off the shuttle slowly came to a stop, and so it was clear to Ashton that she had to be near if not in the customs checkpoint. And that meant that all that waiting for the one person the two of them were so agitated about seeing again was about to finally come to an—

Her face was thin, Ashton thought first as she slowly slipped out of the checkpoint—thinner than Ashton remembered, at any rate. _Did they not feed her on Earth?_ He wondered silently, with a hint of accusation at _them_—Earth, the Federation, Claude, whatever. And she certainly didn't look like the winner of the prestigious 'Eclesia Industrial Prize,' whatever the hell that was. Graft had said that Precis, Claude, and Leon (Precis and Leon apparently now as much Earthers as Claude, it seemed) told him to think of it like a 'space engineering Nobel.' Of course, even this reference still managed to be completely over both the doctor's and Ashton's heads.

Precis Neuyman noticed them, finally, with little change of expression. Instead, she just looked... _tired_, as she grimly shifted her heavy backpack. Ashton supposed that the shuttle ride from Cross Central Spaceport (not to mention the long flight from Earth) was the cause... though for some reason he couldn't quite get himself to believe that.

Immediately, Graft started forward to meet her. Ashton, still uneasy, started to follow him shortly thereafter—he still had absolutely no idea what he was going to say to her. They met about halfway across the field.

"Dad," Precis said, her tone a little lighter as she dropped the bag off her shoulder and gave Graft a hug.

"I missed you." As the hug broke up, Precis' eyes nervously flicked towards Ashton, before she apparently forced her gaze back to him. "Gyoro, Ururun," she greeted—standing on her tip-toes to scratch each under the chin—before her gaze dropped back to Ashton's face. "Ashton..." she said, sounding far more... cool.

The two stood awkwardly for a moment. Before he could stop himself, Ashton almost moved in for a hug. At the last moment, he played it off (badly) as an extended stretch, before putting out his hand. "It's good to see you again," he finally settled on. It seemed as reasonable a compromise between a pathetic "Why'd you leave me?" and a defensive "So you're back?" as he was liable to find.

Precis hefted her backpack once again, turning her attention back to Graft. "So, uh, shall we...?" she asked.

"Ah, yes, yes," Graft said absently, sharply turning back to the exit of the compound. "I've got your room all made up again—and dinner's already on the stove."

"Greasemonkey Stew?" Precis asked eagerly, using her favorite nickname for her father's specialty dish—basically every vegetable known to Expel thrown together in one pot with the smallest and cheapest slices of meat Graft could find.

"Only the best for my daughter," Graft said cheerily.

(He only said that, you will be relived to know, because he knew that Precis honestly _did_ love the stew. In fact, when Precis had been around 12, Graft had attempted—thanks to a much more stable source of income when a few of his inventions finally started catching on—to up the quality of the ingredients he used in the dish... only to have Precis call foul.)

The three began the long walk back to Linga in silence after that. Ashton awkwardly folded his hands within his robes, still at a complete loss of what to say. Actually, that was a lie. It was just all the things that Ashton wanted to say would have ended things horribly.

"So," Precis started, very aware of the silence as well. "What have you been up to since Edifice, Ashton?"

Ashton felt a tingle up along his back, and for a moment he was afraid that he was going to just blurt something out that he was going to regret. "Training, mostly," he said finally. "I got hired to help clear out some beasts out from north-west Cross—er, the Clik defensive district," he corrected hastily, still struggling to master the new lingo the Federation had brought with it. His two dragons finally acted up a little. "Gyoro and Ururun helped, too," he added, his expression lightening a little for the first time that morning as he smiled.

"That's, ah... That's good," she answered slowly. Ashton thought he detected a hint of disappointment in her tone. Had Earth inflated her expectations so much that his little life of training was so entirely _boring_?

"I saw Dias on that mission, actually," Ashton added, desperate for the conversation to continue.

"Did you?" she asked. "How is he?"

Ashton's expression deflated. "About the same..." he said.

Silence again. Ashton's fingers worked restlessly on the hilts of his short swords. The only sound was of the trio's boots crunching through rocks and underbrush. Finally, as the three neared the town limits of Linga, Ashton cleared his throat as if he was about to speak.

Precis, however, seemed to ignore it. "And how have things been going with the research, Dad?" she pressed, before Ashton could say anything.

"Oh," Graft began, "Oh, uh, things have..." He coughed. "Things could be going better with, uh, the Linga Research Board."

"What do you mean? Did they not find your theory plausible?" she asked. "I mean, I've taken a look at some of the models, and they seem pretty..." she trailed off.

Graft tried to wave off her concern, even as his free hand absently fiddled with his mustache. "No, no, nothing of the sort!" Graft exhorted, sounding completely relaxed. "They've only rejected my research four times," he continued, still looking nonplussed.

"They'll see the light, eventually," he finished, his tone finally sounding slightly uncertain as he dug a spiral pad out of his pocket and began scanning his notes. His eyes never once leaving the chicken scratch scrawled across the lined pages, he began to walk vaguely in the direction of his workshop.

"Dad..." Precis said quietly, shaking her head as he followed him.

Ashton, looking morose, trailed behind her. Gyoro and Ururun exchanged looks again.

**OOO**

**September 5th, 370 SD  
1452 EST (earth standard time)  
Space Forces CentCom (Expel Affairs Office), Ontario, North American Administrative District, Earth**

Commodore Iria Silvestoli-Kenni frowned before scowling and rubbing her eyes tiredly. "I'm really not making any progress, am I?" she asked the quiet of her office, lowering the tablet she had been slogging through.

Unsurprisingly, the quiet of her office declined to offer an answer, so Iria let the tablet and its damnable, endless reports drop to her desk with a soft thud.

The 'adoption' of Expel as a monitored planet under Federation jurisdiction had resulted in an absolute bureaucratic _nightmare_. Normally, there was a very strict process that was followed in declaring a planet as 'monitored.' Typically such planets had already detected some traces of interstellar culture ('natural accidental contact' as some academics called it), and had a level of technology that was comparable _at least_ to Earth history's 20th century.

(Well, Earth history excluding the pre-history exploits of the Mu Continent and the scattered Moorian race. But Iria pushed that unholy knot of controversy and massive historical implications away with a definite mental push.)

But a monitored planet classification had _never _been declared with Federation military forces _already_ committed on the ground (however limited their role was), and never with a planet so, well, _underdeveloped_.

The whole thing was already a snarl of violated protocols and questionable progress. And it only got more complicated as one added in the petty politicking, the sudden undeniable economic interests, and the media hoopla surrounding this most unusual of Federation military deployments. And the person in charge of trying to wrangle the whole mess Earthside? One Commodore Iria Silvestoli-Kenni.

To a certain extent, though, she had asked for it. Somehow, after losing her husband (and nearly her son to boot), space exploration had managed to lose its luster. Her request for transfer to CentCom had been approved quickly. This was in no doubt due in large part both to her 'history' with underdeveloped planets and as mother to—at least for a while—the preeminent expert on Expel.

Since transferring to CentCom, Iria had found herself tried, tested, and challenged more often than she ever thought possible—possibly even more than all her time as a captain in the field.

(Well, maybe not more than that nasty skirmish with those Nitali extremists near Styx... Nor for that matter the entire bloody debacle of the Strennus Incident when she first took command of the _Valkyrie_...)

But CentCom was proving to have its own sharp claws... There wasn't a day that went by, for example, that Senator Novacello—the senior Senator on the Space Forces Oversight Committee—wasn't calling for her head or her job (or both!) because of what he perceived as her 'xenophilic tendencies.'

Still though, Iria consoled herself, even with all the messes she had to deal with, she still didn't have it as bad as Admiral Tilgrem did. As _head_ of Expel Affairs, Tilgrem was expected to walk the narrow line of Marine and other troop deployments—between 'providing assistance' to the Expellian governments, and 'co-opting the conflict.'

In effect, he was being asked to decide where to get involved (and risk public opinion in the Federation demanding the immediate withdrawal of the troops) and where not to (and possibly condemn innocents to death at the hands of this unknown and seemingly unstoppable phenomenon).

_And_ he was expected to do that while all the while struggling to limit 'cultural contamination' (ha!) and attempting to make a good-faith effort at honoring the tenets of a 'monitored planet'—Federation contact with as few representatives down on Expel as possible. All told, she didn't envy Tilgrem sometimes.

_Then again, _she thought, _he doesn't have to deal with that blowhard Novacello nearly as often as _I _do_. The thought was enough to coax a soft chuckle from her as she dove back into her reports.

A short time later, her desk comm. began blaring. She absently keyed it. "Yes?" she asked, not harshly, but then again not particularly friendly either.

"Aunt Iria?"

Iria looked up to the console's screen, her look of deep concentration traded in an instant for a broad smile. "Oh, Leon! Done with classes already?" she asked.

"Auntie, it's nearly six already," Leon answered back.

Iria blinked, immediately look at the nearest chronometer. "What?" she asked, sounding profoundly confused. She frowned as she eyed the chronometer distrustfully, immediately checking it was right with her wristwatch. "I hadn't realized it was so late..." she admitted. As if to finally convince herself, she swiveled her chair around to face her office's window. _Yes, it looks like dusk..._ she thought.

Leon looked distressed. "Auntie, you weren't going to spend all night at the office again, were you?" he asked. "Because you really shouldn't," he continued seriously. "Look, I even replicated dinner already!" He held up a plate of what looked like curry up to his comm. set's camera, steam still rising from it. "See?"

"Yes, yes, I see Leon, I see." Iria smirked, stretching her neck and putting down her tablet. "Okay," she answered, "I'll be home in a few minutes. Set the table, okay?"

Leon was all smiles. "Yes, Auntie!" he chimed, killing the connection as he, presumably, scrambled towards the table. For such a normally serious and hardworking 16 year old, he certainly could be surprisingly childlike at times... but in a good way, Iria decided.

_Only Leon could be discussing advanced heraldry theory one second then singing along to a pop song while setting the table... _

Iria pushed away from her desk, standing and stretching her back, before picking up her uniform jacket off her coat rack, killing the lights, and locking her office behind her.

_Leon was right_, Iria decided as she waited for the elevator down to the main lobby of her administrative building. _Maybe I've been spending a little too much time at work these days_...

It took her only minutes to cross the lobby to one of the public transporters, and seconds after that she was home... where she found Leon setting the table and singing badly and off key to a pop song playing over the radio, exactly like she expected.

After dinner, Leon volunteered to do the dishes. Grabbing a bottle of sports drink while in the kitchen, Iria stopped for a moment near the sink. "Good boy," Iria said cheerily, ruffling his hair as he bent over the sink. Then she rubbed his ears. "Ah, these ears are just so _cute_!" she exclaimed, like she had so many times before.

"Auntie!" Leon complained.

"I'm sorry," Iria said smoothly, "but it's _so _true."

Leon went back to the dishes with a harrumph, but they were both smiling—this was a well rehearsed dance of theirs.

Actually, as Iria lay down to sleep that night, she felt—for the first time in quite a while—like she had everything more or less under control.

This of course, she would later reflect, should have been her first warning.

A v-mail was waiting for Iria in her inbox. It was Admiral Tilgrem, informing her of his retirement, and congratulating her on her promotion to head of Expel Affairs.

_So much for having it under control_... she thought darkly, even as she stared at Tilgrem's smiling image.

**OOO**

**September 6th, 370 SD  
1843 EST (earth standard time)  
On approach to D-Ring, Moonbase, Earthsphere**

"Moonbase Space Traffic Control, this is _Taru Moore_ out of Tetragenesis. Come back."

Opera Vectra shifted in her seat as Ernest stared intently at the _Moore_'s forward screen. At that moment, the screen was dominated by a picturesque view of Moonbase as it hung like a ripe peach between Earth and Luna.

The comm. crackled to life. "_Taru Moore_, this is Moonbase Space Traffic Control. Please transmit telemetry now." Ernest obediently keyed in the correct commands, sending the data. After a moment, one of the _Moore_'s secondary screens flashed from amber to green—confirmation that their intra-Earthsphere flight plan had been okayed. "_Taru Moore_, you are clear for approach and berth at Docking Ring, section 31, Slot 12. Confirmed?"

Ernest glanced between two of the secondary screens inlaid in his console. "Confirmed," he said after a minute.

Opera felt the thrum of the _Moore_'s engines as the craft changed course for the designated docking port. The minutes between the _Moore_'s entrance into Earthspace and its final approach to D-Ring afforded Opera another good opportunity to view Moonbase and its environs... and also to think. She shifted in the co-pilot's chair, feeling an uneasy agitation.

Part of it was the vague thrill she always got when pulling into a Federation station: the number of Federation regulations she and Ernest had broken over the years might make even the most adventurous of her archeologist colleagues blush. But that alone couldn't account for all of it. The rest... well, that could only be explained by saying today was 'special.' And not necessarily the good kind of special.

The docking procedures proceeded smoothly. A surprisingly short time later, Ernest and Opera stood at the _Moore_'s airlock, listening silently to hiss of pressurization beyond the hatch. "Watch your step," Ernest advised Opera, as he stopped over the docking collar.

The two marched down the catwalk into Moonbase. As they descended, Opera absently noticed the buzz of activity up and down the docking ring—people moving, customs officials keeping a careful eye on all.

The two reached the bottom of the catwalk, where it locked official with Moonbase. It was at that point when Ernest turned and began to walk back up towards the ship.

"Ernest," Opera called. He paused, looking back. "Thank you." She shifted. "For bringing me to Moonbase," she elaborated.

"It was the least I could do," Ernest answered. He turned to continue up into the ship, but paused for another moment. "Opera... I do hope you'll... at least think of me fondly from time to time."

Inwardly, Opera was a little shocked at this display of sentimentality from Ernest. She nodded. "I... I will, Ernest." She shifted again. "We had a good few years, didn't we?" she asked.

Ernest nodded. "I—" he began, only to break off, an oddly perplexed look on his face. For a moment, Opera fancied she could see past his 'trail worn adventurer' shell and see some real emotion play across his features. "Goodbye, Opera," he finished finally, his tone not devoid of tenderness.

"Goodbye, Ernest." Taking a few steps back, Opera watched as the catwalk retracted and the hatch shut and the _Taru Moore_ pulled away from its berth and left Moonbase—and her—behind.

She heaved a sigh, hefting her luggage. "So, we begin again," she said enigmatically to no one in particular, as she turned and walked to customs.

**OOO**

**September 7th, 370 SD  
0122 EST (earth standard time)  
Federation Officer Barracks, Level 4 Section 00 (FleetCom), Moonbase, Earthsphere**

The door to the hab. slid open with a metallic hiss. Arms stretched behind his head and a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, Lieutenant Claude C. Kenni strolled into the room. "Oh, _man_ it's good to be home," he declared cheerily (though the hint of exhaustion in his tone would have been hard to miss). He slapped several switches on the wall; lights throughout the hab. popped on.

He was followed immediately by Rena Lanford, a slender and delicate white bag slipped over one shoulder. "I though that debriefing would never end," she sighed happily, dropping the bag on the floor in the entryway before stretching. "Commander McCormack certainly knows how to drone on and on."

"Mmm," Claude answered, as he walked across the front room towards the kitchen (dropping his duffel near the couch). "Check messages?" he asked, turning all the way back to face her even as he continued walking—backwards—to the kitchen.

Rena nodded. "Tea?" she asked back.

"Got it," Claude said, walking normally once again. As he got about his tasks in the kitchen—replicating tea leaves and boiling water (both he and Rena preferred tea brewed fresh, even if the difference was mostly psychological)—he laughed to himself. "There was this one time," he called, "when Commander McCormack was giving this one mission briefing, and half the officers in the room fell asleep." Claude grinned to himself as he paused for dramatic effect. "And the worst part was it was the briefing for a light security mission on a resort planet!"

Rena laughed, as she headed for the room's main console, on the other side of the couch. "How on earth did he manage that?" she hollered back.

"He just kept listing everything that could possibly happen to an officer on duty on a beach," Claude answered, before slipping into an impression of the notoriously verbose and dull commander—an impression that sounded very much like famous historical statesmen Henry Kissinger.

"Be very careful," he started in measured tones, "for sunburn is nothing to scoff at—they can appear to be not very serious, but in actuality, you can have very deep tissue damage that would take a dermal regenerator a good several minutes to fully repair..."

Rena failed to stifle her laughter. "Und you must be very careful about crabs und lobsters," she improvised, doing a passable impression of her own. "Whose pincers can be very difficult to shake off." She smiled as she managed to elicit a few chuckles of her own, and she sat down to log in.

"What kind of messages did we get?" Claude called after a moment. "Anything important?"

"Mostly just junk..." she answered, scanning the files in their joint inbox. "Oh, wait—here's something." Her expression turned considering as she reviewed the mail.

"Rena?" Claude asked, as he finished loading up the tea tray and began walking out into the main living area.

"It's a message from Leon," Rena called, 'flipping' through the remaining v-mails waiting in the console's inbox. She glanced over her shoulder at Claude. "He just wanted you to call when you got in." Her nose crinkled. "Though I think he expected us a little earlier than 1:30 in the morning."

Claude set the tea tray down on the coffee table, before dropping himself onto the couch. He reclined with one arm draped over his forehead and his eyes closed. "No kidding. Of course, even if it weren't this late, I'd probably just deal with that in the morning."

Rena signed off the terminal, unfolding herself from the console's attached chair and walking over to the couch. She bent over the edge of the couch, looking (upside) down at Claude. "Pretty beat huh?" she asked.

Claude cracked open an eye. "You know it," he deadpanned.

"I hope you're not _too _beat," she said playfully, planting a quick kiss on his forehead.

"I think I can manage," he fired back mischievously, grabbing at her and pulling down to the couch amid her laughter.

"Oh _really_?" Rena asked between further kisses. "I guess we'll just see about—" She broke off abruptly as the hab's main vid-screen popped on (apparently in their 'wrestling,' the two had rolled on top of the screen's remote control).

"Rena?" Claude asked, confused as why she had suddenly went rigid. He craned his neck back, to see the vid-screen. "Oh..." he said quietly, shifting as Rena gently eased off of him. By cosmic quirk or random chance, the screen had flicked on to FNN's coverage of the recent Expel protests.

The mood obviously killed, Claude sat up. Rena, her legs tucked up under her, stared transfixed at the screen. Feeling awkward, Claude leaned forward and began work on the tea. When both cups were prepared, he held one out to Rena. She took it wordlessly, moved it vaguely in the direction of her mouth before apparently giving up, and set it uneasily on the coffee table.

Claude sat quietly and watched the reports with her, slowly sipping his tea. When he had finished his second cup (Rena's first having long since grown cold on the table), he could no longer stifle his yawns. "I've got to get some rest," he began casually, eyeing Rena out of the corner of his eye. When she didn't acknowledge him, he sighed and stood up. "I'm going to sack out," he declared. "Are you coming with?"

She shook her head. "I'm going to watch a bit more," she replied.

Claude took one last look back as he turned the corner to the hab.'s bedroom; Rena sat motionless on the couch in the darkened room, watching the screen. Her expression was hard to read.

**END CHAPTER 1**

**Author's Note**:

This fic (as well as its author) has no political axe to grind. Attempts to read modern events by the light of this fic are neither advised nor, you know, _the point_.

On more specific points:

I've always felt that Iria (ass-kicking heroine from SO1, Ronixis' confidant and first officer) being Claude's mother wraps things up so nicely, while keeping everything 'in the family,' so to speak. That's also neatly explains why Claude's hair is so wild and blonde (like Iria's) and so many of his killer moves are fist (rather than sword) based. Plus it gives me an excuse to have a high ranking Federation officer as a viewpoint character who isn't a complete OC.

I always had trouble imagining that Rena would feel _no _guilt over leaving Expel... especially considering that according to the SO3 encyclopedia entry, Expel entered a time of troubles right after SO2 ends (the encyclopedia, AKA the inspiration for this fic). So expect Rena's guilt to be a running theme in this fic.

I've always felt bad for Ashton, at least in regards to Precis. The one lady he seems to make progress with, and she goes gallivanting across the galaxy to Earth anyway. Man, Ashton really _doesn't _have any luck...

And as far as Opera and Ernest are concerned, please see _A Thousand Yesterdays _for something more in-depth. Short answer: Ernest probably isn't ever going to change, and I seriously wonder if Opera would always keep waiting for him to. ...Also, I may have an irrational hate of Ernest. In fact, don't expect to see too much of him floating around, actually... Opera, on the other hand...

For simplicity's sake, I've lumped Expel's months into four season-based affairs. I've also made the assumption that all churches on Expel belong to the same denomination (which I've arbitrarily dubbed 'the United Church of Expel'). Then again, there's nothing that I recall in SO2 that says they _aren't _all of the same denomination...


	3. Just Beyond the Surface

**CHAPTER 2: JUST BEYOND THE SURFACE**

**November 2nd, 370 SD  
0923 EST (earth standard time)  
H-Tower 17 (Residential Zone 3), Moonbase, Earthsphere**

It had taken surprisingly little time for Opera to track down a hab. in Moonbase's residential district. And it was even pretty impressive, all things considered: two bedrooms and a luxuriously large common area, into which she had dragged a feather stuffed couch.

Not that she was able to enjoy any of it at the moment. No, at the moment, she was trapped at her console, grappling with a very difficult call she had been dreading for weeks.

Opera's mother leaned forward toward the screen. "So, just when _are _you planning on coming home?"

Opera did her best to disguise her scowl. Judging by her mother's reaction, it hadn't gone well. "We've discussed this," Opera declared, trying to keep her tone more 'neutral' and less 'icy.'

Ophia Vectra looked irritated. "I do wish you'd just go ahead and grow out of this _rebellious _stage of yours," she chided.

Opera made a face. "This _stage _has been most of my adult life," she grumbled.

"Just come home, dear, and we'll _ease _you back into a leadership role," Ophia continued, either missing or ignoring Opera's editorializing. "Opal's already taken over several of our ministries, and I know your dear father would love to take something of a vacation sometime soon..."

"_Mother_," Opera rebuked firmly.

"But why Earth?" Ophia asked finally, her tone petulant and frustrated. "You _know _what sorts of stories they write about you there." Her expression turned sulky. "Dearest, I honestly don't see how you can_ stand_ those _earthers_ and their _paparazzi_ and _entertainment reporting_," she finished, leaning back and disgustedly tossing her mink stole over her shoulder.

_I wonder if she remembers that's an '_earther' _creature around her neck, _Opera wondered. For a half-second she considered bringing it up, but... well, she figured relations between her and her mother were strained enough as it was. "If that's all...?" Opera asked instead.

Unfortunately, Ophia wasn't quite ready to drop the issue. "Opera," she started, her normal airy tone sounding something remarkably close to serious, "Why _are _you in the Earthsphere?" The calculation in Ophia's eyes lessened for a moment. "Is that _Ernest_ keeping you stuck there over some museum or funding issue?" her mother asked, placing the same vaguely disappointed emphasis on Ernest's name that she always did.

"Ah," Opera began uncomfortably, shifting visibly, "No, that's not..." She distractedly brushed a lock of hair back behind her ear. "Actually... Ernest and I aren't... _together _anymore."

"Oh really?" Ophia asked, in her 'vaguely surprised but not about to show it' voice. "How... _unfortunate,_" she began, clearly not meaning that at all. _That's relief I hear in her voice, _Opera though quietly. _Not that surprising..._ "I do hope that you are feeling okay, though, darling—I know break-ups can be hard."

_That _was sincere. Opera nodded. "I know. I'm fine. It was a... mutual split. And mostly amicable."

Ophia nodded. "Well, if you need to talk, you know how to reach me," Ophia said. But then the calculation stole back on her face. "But if it isn't Ernest and more of his wrangling with Feddie law keeping you in the Earthsphere..." The question hung in the silence.

Opera stiffened. "I, er..." She feigned looking off screen to a clock. "Er... Look, I'm, uh, _sorry_ Mother, actually I have to go, and..."

And Opera didn't meet her mother's gaze, because she knew that she would have seen that same look of calculation, backed up now by certainty and confirmed suspicions.

**OOO**

**Cryarsis 17th, 1348 UCEC (United Church of Expel Calendar)  
Sunset  
Grounds of Linga University, Kingdom of Lacour, Expel**

Within seconds of crossing into the library, Ashton realized that he stuck out like a sore thumb. Between the short swords belted around his waist, his dusty, made-for-combat robes, and, of course, his dragons... If anything, Ashton was actually a little surprised that he wasn't drawing _more_ stares from the bookish academic types spread out among the tables.

Looking for all the world as if he were marching into the Cave of Trials alone, Ashton grimly marched to the library's information desk. The older woman at the desk, hair in a bun and sharp glasses perched on the bridge of her nose, disdainfully eyed Ashton before clearing her throat. "Can I help you?"

"Y-yes," Ashton began, before clearing his throat. "I'm looking for Precis Neuyman."

The info desk clerk's expression soured even more, seeming to say _This isn't the lost and found_. Instead, "The girl with the robot, correct?" she asked. Ashton nodded. "I saw her heading towards special collections." Then, almost without a pause for a breath, the woman cleared her throat. "Next!" she called.

Thus dismissed (for there was no one in line behind Ashton), and trying not to slink his shoulders too much, Ashton headed off to the general direction the desk clerk had indicated.

Precis was surprisingly easy to find. She was humming lightly, twirling a pen with her feet kicked up on a study table. Bobot, meanwhile, kept himself entertained—servos whining softly—by tapping out an old soft-shoe.

For a moment, Ashton just stood there and stared. Then Gyoro—looking confused—made a soft grunt. Ashton stiffened. Precis suddenly looked up. Bobot froze in mid-step.

In on swift movement, she dropped her legs to the floor and dropped the book she had been reading. "Aw _geez_, Ashton! What are you _doing_!?" she demanded, holding a hand to her chest. "You scared me!" she declared, glaring at Ashton.

"I—I, er..." Ashton stammered.

After a minute, Precis sighed, sounding irritated. She stood, and moved to the bookshelf behind the table. "What do you want, Ashton?" she asked tiredly, not pausing for a moment from scanning the bookshelf and pulling free reports. "Between the project I'm on, and my dad asking me to look into this 'absorption field' idea of his, I've barely got time to _think _much less—" she broke off, her expression scrunching up. "Well, you get the idea."

Ashton, perhaps emboldened by the familiarity of Precis starting to ramble (just like she always did when she got nervous), thought to himself "_What the hell?_" and steeled his nerves. "I just wanted to talk... about... you and me," he said, nervously.

"What's there to talk about?" she asked bluntly, still aimlessly sorting items on the shelf. For a second she froze, still holding one of those books, and looked unsure—had she meant for that to come out harshly? It was hard to tell.

At any rate, Ashton stiffened. And then something just seemed to spark in him. "How can you say that?" he demanded. "You can't just pretend we didn't have anything between us! It was there—_I _felt it!"

His hands balled into fists. "But then you... then you just _left_ for Earthand left me behind!" he accused.

He apparently touched a nerve. Precis froze in place for a long moment before spinning around so suddenly that even Bobotwas stunned. "Well I'm _sorry_," Precis barked out irritably, the squeak in her voice reminding him of happier days. "But what would you have had me do?" she demanded. "That was a once in a lifetime opportunity," she continued. "I mean," and here she smacked the palm of her hand against her head. "It was _Earth_! Did you _want_ me to turn that down!?" she demanded.

She then abruptly took two quick steps forward, and jabbed her finger into Ashton's chest. "And if you did, _why didn't you say anything to me!?_" she shouted, what was apparently years of frustration bleeding to the surface.

Ashton was silent for a long moment, just staring into Precis' eyes (already threatening to well with tears). "I understood that," he began quietly. "_All_ _of it_. And that's why I didn't say anything the first time."

He calmly took the book forgotten in her grip away and put it on the table, then enfolded her hands with his. "But after Edifice..." he began, adrenaline and emotion and _hope_ all conspiring to infuse him with rare eloquence, "I... I thought that..." He locked and held Precis' gaze, courage finally gathered. "I thought you were going to stay."

The two stood silently like that for a long moment; Ashton's mouth had never felt dryer.

Finally, Precis broke the gaze, twisting back to the table. "Ashton, I can't do this right now," she pleaded plaintively, gathering up the books and papers she had been trying to collect.

After a moment, her tone returned to something more approximating normal. "I've got several reports to type up before tomorrow alone—you know the Federation, free fare home only if you agree to work on their giant science project, and my team supervisor is kind of a—" and she was rambling again.

"Precis—" he began.

"_Ashton_," Precis said sharply. "_Please_," she finished, her tone slightly softer.

Ashton—looking crestfallen—said nothing as she finished gathering up her books and walked deeper into the library. Bobot trailed behind her, sending Ashton oddly sympathetic looks all the while.

**OOO**

**November 19th, 370 SD  
0801 EST + 6:00 (earth standard time, adjusted six hours for expel local)  
Office of Commodore Silvestoli-Kenni, EXCOM Command Center, Central Cross, Expel**

"So Leon's transport got delayed again?" Claude asked over the comm. set.

Iria nodded, her expression blanching. "He should have been here already, but there's a massive solar storm disrupting most traffic into the Ark System right now." She folded her arms. A devilish smirk stole onto her face as she imagined Leon stuck in a spaceport somewhere on the other side of the sector. "I know he had some last few errands to run back on Earth, but I'll be he's regretting it now..."

"Well, how about you then?" Claude asked—apparently satisfied with how his 'little brother' was doing, he was smoothing switching tracks. "How are you settling in on Expel? Is everything going all right?"

Iria waved off his concern. "More or less."

"Is something wrong?" he asked, frowning.

"Just a lot of work, Claude," she answered tiredly, before a small smile stole onto her face. "I haven't even gotten a chance to do much sight-seeing. I hear Cross Castle is quite the tourist trap."

Claude's brow furrowed at her answer, and any hopes Iria had that her flippant answer would mollify him vanished. "Are you sure that's all?"

Well then, time to pull rank. "Sorry, Claude. The rest is classified." She smiled brightly. "Understood, _Lieutenant_?" she asked.

A tiny smirk stole onto Claude's face. "Yes, ma'am," he answered automatically, even sketching a weak salute. "And judging by your tone, I'm guessing that's all the time for me you have today?"

Iria's smile only grew. "Unfortunately," she agreed. "You know, they say your mom's an important lady in the military these days," she added.

"Do they now?" he asked, shaking his head.

"EXCOM headquarters out," she said sweetly. To this, Claude just rolled his eyes playfully as the connection cut out.

Now, if only not being able to take some time off to sight-see _was _the extent of her problems...

She turned her attention back to her personal tablet and the various papers littering her desk—her 'inheritance' from Tilgrem. "Where to begin?" she asked herself slowly, grabbing up the first report from her desk.

She flipped through the report's pages. It was the latest Expel-wide security assessment, and most of it was bad news. On the one hand, most population centers were currently holding their own. Most minor villages and even some of the major cities had curfews in effect, as well as militias (some covertly trained by Federation soldiers even) to provide security. It wasn't a perfect situation, but for now it was sustainable...

_For now_, Iria thought darkly. Beast attacks were only growing fiercer, and several of the smaller towns were already feeling the strain of what was effectively an unending planet-wide siege. The militias could protect citizens against an isolated incident or two... But heaven help them if a major beast attack were to strike at one of the smaller townships!

With a sigh, she moved on to the next report, only to cringe. El. Officially titled _A Digest of Recent Eluria Reclamation Efforts_, this report was an equally depressing jaunt through the efforts at reclaiming the continent of El. She opened the folio with a grim resignation.

Long story short, El remained a lost cause. There had been some gains, in the spring of the previous year. Then, the King of Cross had outfitted an expedition of mercenaries (with the tacit approval of EXCOM) to sortie in El. For a while it seemed as if the plan might work... until the long hot days of the summer, when the expedition found itself fighting not only beasts but lawless bandits who had flocked to El as well. With the king's coffers running short, the mission was ultimately abandoned. Despite a toe hold on the southern part of El, the rest of the country remained lost.

To the next report, then. _Expel First Contact: Blue Dolphins_. Ah, yes, the 'phins. Since magically appearing near New Clik (or, rather, _in _Clik, Iria thought with a crinkled nose) the newest 'addition' to Expel were inadvertently causing all sorts of problems across Expel's seaboards.

If there was a bright point to the issue, it seemed like there was no major discrimination in the Clik region—the region where most blue dolphins emigrating to land were centered. Actually, considering all the reversals and rotten luck that had beset Clik, the folks there seemed pretty open to the whole idea.

_If only all First Contacts went as well_, Iria thought with the cynicism only a career in the Space Force could provide. She was suddenly struck by the fact that Expel had already had its first 'first contact'... and hadn't even needed to master space flight to do it—a feat even Earth history hadn't managed to accomplish.

At around 1100, Iria set the last of the reports—for the time being—down. According to her schedule (helpfully organized by her virtual army of aides and staffers), the rest of her morning and early afternoon would be dominated by meetings with the planet's local leaders, ideally to get them acclimated to the leadership change. (Hopefully, Iria thought wearily, this would go better than her morning of reports had...)

First up, as host country for the EXCOM, was Cross... And by all accounts they had sent over one of the royal family for the meeting.

Her console's communicator beeped. "Commodore Silvestoli-Kenni, the Cross representative is here."

"Send them in," she answered automatically.

The next thing Iria knew, a young looking page—complete with royal crest embroidered on his jerkin—slipped into the room, taking up a position next to the door. "Now presenting," the altogether serious looking page began, "Her Royal Highness, Princess of East Mars Hill."

Iria half expected a horn to sound somewhere. Instead, an elegant looking young woman—dressed in what could only be described as an odd and mostly translucent blue and pink jumpsuit—simply walked into the room with little fanfare. "Hello," the Princess-Consort said simply, breezily flicking back a stray lock of silver hair. "I'm Celine." She extended a hand.

Then Celine took another long look at the woman in the fancy Federation uniform across the desk. They had met before—only briefly, when Claude had come back down with all those soldiers from his 'Federation' during the battle at Lacour Castle. "You're... Claude's mother, aren't you?" she asked, surprised.

"Celine, right?" Iria asked back, unsure what to make of this. She paused for a too long moment. "Are _you _the representative?" she asked, dumbfounded.

"Ah, yes..." Celine answered, sounding a little distracted herself. "Yes, I've been sent on behalf of my husband, his majesty Clothier XVI..."

**OOO**

**Cryarsis 24th, 1348 UCEC (United Church of Expel Calendar)  
Midmorning  
City Council Hall, Port of New Clik, Kingdom of Cross, Expel**

"Noel?" New Clik's ombudswoman asked, poking her head into the small waiting room, "the blue dolphin delegation is preparing to depart."

Noel looked up from the book he had been reading (_Common Flora and Fauna of Northern Cross_), a thin smile breaking across his sleepy features. "Oh, thank you." He quickly closed his book, and tucked it into his bags.

The ombudswoman nodded, and then Noel noticed her gaze lingering on his distinct (and lightly tufted) ears. She quickly blushed and ducked back out of the room. Noel's mouth quirked into a smirk—after so many months in Clik, the entranced stares were becoming less and less frequent, but they _did _still occur every so often.

(And if anyone _did _ask, it wasn't that difficult to simply claim heritage as an exotic branch of Expellian fellpool. Given that it was something of a sensitive topic to some, that was usually enough to get most people to stop asking questions. )

Noel shook his head in bemusement, then picked up the bags by his feet and exited the waiting room. Out in the city hall's main foyer, he spotted a cluster of blue dolphins who were animatedly talking with representatives from the city's government. As he watched, the 'phins delegation said their final farewells before peeling off to head out of city hall. Noel could just see them outside, descending the stairs to a waiting Federation truck.

Noel was just about to discretely follow them down to the truck when Clik's mayor, still standing with the other city government officials, spotted him. "Ah! Mr. Chandler!" he called, quickly jogging over.

Noel cast one last look at the truck, still loading its passengers. "Mr. Mayor," he said, warmth in his voice.

The mayor, a big man with a bigger beard, pumped Noel's hand repeatedly. "Mr. Chandler! I just wanted to thank you again for all you've done here."

Noel smiled, patting the back of the mayor's hand. "No, no, I hardly did anything," he said softly, trying in his so characteristically humble way to deflect any praise.

"Nonsense!" the mayor declared in a booming voice. "Why, if you had told me six months ago that by early winter we'd already have a treaty established—that we'd have _settled _visitation and beachfront rights, and almost have a working trade agreement—I wouldn't have believed you. And yet we do, it's all thanks to you!"

"Now, now," Noel began modestly, "I didn't do it all alone—I did have help. Those Federation mediators were—"

"Bah, those Federation mediators were _useless_!" the mayor bombastically finished for Noel, throwing up one hand. "It was all so textbook with them, all the time. No, it wasn't till you came along and started talking to both sides like _equals _that we really made any progress."

And although Noel would never admit it, the truth was that talks had been an impasse until he stumbled upon the situation on one of his journeys across Expel (he did so love to see the wide variety of animals across Expel). And it was chiefly his easy going, friendly manner that he slowly changed minds on both sides: for the folks of New Clik and the Cross government, to start viewing the 'phins as _people _and not simply strange little fishy smelling creatures of the sea; and for the 'phins, to start viewing the 'land-dudes' as people and not impossibly tall and impossibly smelly creatures.

"Well," Noel started neutrally, trying to change the subject from how great he was, "there_ is_ still a lot of ground to cover yet," Noel gently reminded the mayor. "The maritime sovereignty issue is probably going to be around for a while yet. And Cross may have finished the majority of _its _negotiations, but talks in Lacour are only just beginning."

"Pish-posh!" the mayor declared confidently. "Why, with you on hand, I'm confidant that everything's going to work out fine." The mayor nodded to himself vigorously, as if to convince Noel through sheer force of will. "So, what is the itinerary for you next, Mr. Chandler?" the mayor asked next.

Noel looked considering, before reaching into his pocket to pull out a tattered notebook. "Well," he began, flipping through several pages, "it looks like a brief stop off in Oruba, and then, I believe, directly on to the negotiations in Lacour."

The mayor seemed perturbed by this answer. "Oruba? The blue dolphin capital?" he asked. Noel nodded, but the look of consternation hadn't left the mayor's face. "Their capital city that's _under water_," the mayor finished, outlining what was apparently troubling him.

It was only then that it occurred Noel that it would probably break the Federation's UP3 to discuss the highly advanced technology of the rebreather he still had from the battle across (and under the sea) of the bluesphere, Edifice. He suddenly started to laugh nervously. "Ah ha ha... That is... uh... Special heraldry...?" he finished lamely, more of a question than an explanation.

At any rate, the mayor seemed to accept the answer. "Ah, that it explains it, then."

There was a loud honk from the street. Both the mayor and Noel looked out to see the Federation truck still idling out in front, the Feddie serviceman at the wheel irritatingly waving Noel over. (It should be noted that the 'phins in the back of the truck were in no such rush, relaxed and animatedly chatting with one another and even a few bystanders on the street.)

"Ah," the mayor chided, "Noel, you should have told me that they were waiting for you!"

"Ha ha, right," Noel said sheepishly, although he had a sneaking suspicion that fact wouldn't have deterred the mayor any anyway.

"Well, no matter, thank again, Noel, and take care on your journey," the mayor finished, pumping Noel's hand once again."

"Of course, of course," Noel said magnanimously, even as he tried to politely (if forcefully) remove his hand from the surprisingly strong grip of the mayor. Once he had _finally _extracted his hand in one piece, Noel (with a huge sigh of relief) hustled down the steps towards the truck.

**OOO**

**November 20th, 370 SD  
1338 EST (earth standard time)  
Commercial District, O-Ring, Moonbase, Earthsphere**

The commercial district of Moonbase extended all around the lower part of Moonbase's outer 'shell.' It wasn't a mistake or by chance—the Luna Business Alliance had lobbied long and hard to move into such prime real estate as the outer observation ring. The end result was a glamorous palisade of high priced boutiques and cafés juxtaposed with absolutely stunning views of the Earth and Moon.

(Looked at one way, it could be said that Moonbase's commercial district was the epitomization of interstellar human culture...)

Not that such heady matters occupied the mind of one Claude Kenni, as he briskly and determinedly marched down the palisades' bright walkways. His determined stride, however, was broken as a look of confusion stole onto his face. After a moment, he dug into his uniform jacket's pocket and pulled out a scrap of paper. "Where did she say it was...?" he asked no one in particular.

Still frowning, he shuffled over to a helpful directory. With a studied look on his face (as if he were carefully plotting a starship's course and not just trying to find the fastest way to _Le Intresor Verdit_) he carefully picked his way through the brightly lit screen's menus. "Finally," Claude said, sounding relieved as he briskly resumed his previous trek.

Unbeknownst to Claude, as he left the help terminal, a man in a heavy trench coat rushed to quickly see where he had been trying to go...

_Le Intresor_ was a tiny café wedged in between two of the larger shopping arcades. Befitting the general theme of the palisade—that of the faux-natural simulated afternoon sky easily coexisting with stark starscapes—it's glass and metal surfaces were awash in climbing green plants and bright pots. In fact, _Le Intresor_'s heavily stylized placard was covered almost entirely by plants—which explained why Claude had walked past it the first time.

Within seconds of crossing through _Le Intresor_'s gate, he spotted his 'date,' sitting alone in a secluded corner. Her hair was tightly wrapped in a gaudy scarf, and two of her three eyes were shielded from the world behind the impassive façade of an oversized pair of glasses. He held up a hand as he hurried over.

"Sorry I'm late," Claude apologized, slipping into a chair and scooting up to the white cast iron table. "This place was nearly impossible to find, Opera. Why on earth did you want to meet here?" he asked.

Opera calmly pulled off her over-sized sunglasses, but left the scarf—wrapped defensively around her head—on. "_Exactly_ for that reason. The fewer people the better." She favored Claude with an arch look. "Can't forget I'm an heiress, hmm? The last thing I need is a few dozen reporters nosing in on my 'date'."

And for a half second there was a loaded look in Opera's eyes, which Claude managed to completely miss.

Instead, Claude made a show of casting sidelong glances across the interior of the café, which could hardly be classified as a hotbed of activity. "Well, then I'd say mission accomplished," Claude noted (almost) mirthlessly. He scratched at his temple. "I'd almost say this place was closed if I didn't know better."

"Actually," Opera confessed as she folded and placed her sunglasses on the table, "I _did _try to get them to open an hour earlier, but the manager had a hissy fit at the very thought."

"Are the reporters really that bad?" Claude asked, sounding a little skeptical. "I mean, if they were, wouldn't your picture be all over the newsmags?"

"I've been _careful_," Opera said, her tone a little less than friendly.

_That _was for certain. Claude hadn't even known Opera had been _on _Moonbase until about a month ago—but she had apparently moved into a Moonbase hab. _two _months ago. Since that time, she'd been consistently using her 'Opera Lesat' alias to keep herself safely tucked from the media's eyes. ('Consistent' was a bit of an understatement. He had nearly deleted the first v-mail she had sent to him on Moonbase before remembering at the last moment that it was one of her favorite aliases.)

It was all very unexpected and sudden... And very suspiciously lacking in Ernest. But neither Claude nor Rena had had much success in teasing the full story out from their errant heiress yet. What they had managed to divine was that, from all accounts, Opera had no intention of leaving Moonbase anytime soon... even if she was forced to continue using her alias and keep a very low profile.

At any rate, whatever Opera's reasons for hanging around Moonbase, Claude was glad for the company, with Rena acting so strange lately!

At that thought, Claude suddenly felt weary. Rena _had _been acting strange lately, although that had something of a more obvious cause than Opera's sudden urge to settle down. The Expel protests were still going full tilt, all across the Federation.

The furor was even bringing together a strange coalition of liberal pacifists and strict conservative Charter constructionalists. Normally at each other's throats, the new coalition found common ground: specifically that the Federation Charter had no provisions for 'special monitored planets' (which is what most of the military brass referred to Expel as) and as a result troops should be withdrawn _immediately_.

All this only worked to further fan the flames of Rena's guilt over leaving Expel. It was patently ridiculous, Claude reflected. What could what could one person _do_—even a Nedian!—against the myriad problems besetting Expel? And hadn't Weseta herself given her blessings to Rena to follow her heart into the stars?

Intellectually, Claude knew, Rena was already aware of all these truths... but that wasn't doing a thing to stop the doubts from lingering in the back of her mind.

He wished there was something he could _do _about it, but...

Shaking off his reflection, Claude forced himself back into the moment... only to see Opera looking equally morose. "So..." Claude began hesitantly, "do you want to talk about it?" There was no need for him to specifywhat he was referring to.

She tried to wave it off and forced herself to smile. "There's not much to talk about," Opera answered. "I'd bet," she began, fidgeting, "that you could probably guess most of what happened. Right?"

Claude didn't deny it. "But I'd _wager_," he countered, running with the gambling theme, "that talking about it would make _you _feel better."

"Heh," she replied, smirking. "I never should have taught you how to gamble," she complained lightly. She sighed. "Okay, I'm game, then."

But she paused, as if gathering her thoughts. "We—" she broke off for a second. "_I_—" she corrected, "I just wasn't able to keep _going _like we had been," she continued jerkily, pausing to sip at her water. "You know Ernest," she added, "the _work_ is all important and all consuming, and silly things like _relationships _and _feelings_ are always going to come in second..." she finished.

Opera looked uncomfortable, shifting. "And I started—"

"Miss Vectra!" someone shouted from near the entrance of the café, causing Opera to break off in mid-sentence. Judging from her expression, Claude thought, whatever it was seemed like bad news... "Oh no..." Opera sighed, burying her face in her hands.

"What are you—" Claude asked as he half turned in his chair.... only to throw up an arm at the sudden burst of flash bulbs. "Gah!"

A battery of at least two dozen men armed with cameras stood in a veritable firing line between their table and _Le Intresor_'s entrance. And they were all _very_ interested in Opera.

"Miss Vectra, over here! Give us a smile for the camera—"

"—is it true you've bought an apartment on Moonbase—"

"—does the move signal an interest in taking up a family leadership role—"

"—and who's this fine young officer you're with—"

"—are wedding bells in the future for you two—"

"—over here! Just another couple of shots!"

Ignoring the endless barrage of questions, Opera stood up determinedly, her expression all thunderclouds. "When I say so," she whispered, "we're going to make a run for it out through the kitchen. Understand?" Claude—still a bit shaken from the sudden barrage of reporters—nodded a bit wooden.

As the cameras continued to pop, Opera suddenly tugged on Claude's uniform sleeve. "Come on!"

Claude stood up awkwardly, wobbling for a moment as the constant bursts of flashbulbs made him dizzy (even if his back was turned to them). Opera's three eyes narrowed at Claude's hesitance, before—with another sigh—she grabbed his hand and dragged him along.

The gang of paparazzi immediately reacted to their target's attempted flight, a chorus of "Miss Vectra!" going up behind Claude and Opera.

"Goddamn paparazzi," she muttered, as they dashed through the café's spotless kitchen. Her pace increased, and her grip on Claude's hand tightened.

"They seem to be fond of you..." Claude deadpanned—with distance from the slavering reporters his senses seemed to be returning to him.

"Why do you think I turned to _archeology_ of all things, Claude?" she fired back, as the two of them stumbled past stunned kitchen staff to the café's back door. Opera flung it open without much preamble and the two scrambled out into the access corridor behind the café. "Nothing like being knee-deep in alien ruins halfway across the galaxy to discourage over-eager, wanna-be celebrity reporters," she elaborated.

The nondescript metal corridor peeled off from them in either direction. Behind them, they could hear the heavy footfalls of very motivated photographers already fanning out to reach them. "Best hurry," Opera said quietly, arbitrarily picking one of the two directions and heading off at a brisk pace, "I don't want to think what kind of mad stories they could cook up with a few photos of us skulking around alone back here in the service corridors."

Claude was about to fire back with some sort of witty repartee, but the serious expression on Opera's face seemed to forestall any such thing.

The service corridor snaked its way through (and in some cases, under) several of the major shopping plazas and stores on O-Ring. Once Opera seemed confidant in the amount of distance between them and their pursuers, she immediately cut into another of the storefronts—this one a dry cleaner. (The sight of a very cross tetrageniot leading a very confused looking Space Force officer—both emerging so suddenly from the nominally off-limits service corridor—so stunned the wizened old owner that it never occurred to him to demand what they were doing.)

The glass door at the front of the shop whooshed open, and the two hurried out into the bright (artificial) sunlight.

"Do you think they're still following us?" Claude asked.

Opera reflected for a moment at Claude's lingering naiveté. "They're like the villain in a teen slasher flick, Claude. They never stop coming..."

"Here," she said suddenly, basically shoving Claude onto a passing trolley, before hopping on next to him.

(If you're wondering what a trolley was doing on the highly advanced Moonbase, the LBA was the root cause once again. While transporter technology had rendered such an antique as a trolley at best quaint and at worst obsolete, the LBA insisted on maintaining one anyway. Most presumed—quite rightly—that the commercial district trolley endured because the tourists just seemed to _love_ it.)

While they rode the trolley, Opera allowed herself the luxury of relaxing for the first time since the paparazzi had ambushed them. "Nothing like a slow speed pursuit to make lunch more interesting," she declared breezily.

Claude's expression blanched. "You _do _realize that we never actually even managed to _order _lunch, right?" And as the trolley continued on to its next stop, the two broke out into laughter. (The other patrons on the trolley were less than amused.)

At the next stop, they used the courtesy transporters. Within moments, they transported back to the barracks in Feddie Hub., hopefully leaving the reporters far behind.

The two lingered on the walkway above the barracks, staring at the stars—unlike in the commercial district, there was no artificial sunlight, offering a much better view.

"Well," Opera began, leaning against the walkway's railing, "that... could have gone better."

Claude nodded. "No kidding. Are you going to be okay, though? Doesn't this mean your cover is blown?"

Opera shrugged. "I'm not sure... I still don't know how they figured it out at all." A weak smile. "I guess I'm just going to have to wait and see if they start buzzing around my hab." Her stomach growled, and the lightest of blushes rose in her cheeks. "Apparently on an empty stomach," she offered in a self-conscious tone.

"Well, hey, why don't you come down to my hab. and we can at least replicate _something _for lunch." The invitation hung out between them for a second too long, and suddenly it was _Claude _who seemed self-conscious. "Well, I mean, it's not much," he quickly added, "I mean, with memory constraints we usually just leave a few dozen basic dishes preloaded, and most of those are just staples and nothing special."

This didn't seem to deter Opera. "That'd be gr—"

Opera was interrupted when Claude's comm. began beeping. He shot her an apologetic look. "Oh, sorry," he apologized, as she just nodded. "Lieutenant Kenni," Claude answered smoothly, tapping his earpiece.

"Claude? It's Rena."

"Rena?" he asked, casting a half glance over at Opera. "Hey, what's up? Is everything okay?"

"Hmm? Oh, yes, everything's fine. It's just that my training section wrapped up early, and I was wondering where you were at."

Claude shifted uneasily. "Uh, well, me and Opera are standing right outside the hab., actually."

"What? No way! I'm..." she paused for a moment, and suddenly the clicking of boots could be clearly heard. Claude and Opera looked up to see Rena come around a building and appear on the walkway, her comm. still keyed. "...just coming around the corner," she finished in faux-stereo.

Claude immediately started to beam, already taking a few steps over. When Rena was close enough... "Hey, you," she called, smiling.

"Hey yourself," Claude answered, moving in to peck her on the check, their arms brushing.

Opera suddenly felt very much like a third wheel.

"Oh, Opera!" Rena said, apparently noticing her for the first time, "How are you?"

"Oh I'm... fine. I'm fine," Opera answered.

And then there was more small talk, but Opera would have been hard pressed to repeat any of it later. After a few minutes, Claude and Rena started to make for the hab.'s entrance. Stopping just short, Claude turned back to Opera. "Opera, do you want to come in? We can still have that lunch—the afternoon's not completely gone."

"No, no that's all right, Claude. You and Rena go on ahead." She shifted, offering a wan smile. "Besides, I'd better just lay low for the next little while. Get going," she finished with a shooing motion.

"Claude?" Rena called, patiently standing on the barrack's lift. Claude nodded and turned to go, offering one last supportive smile to Opera.

And if Claude hadn't been so distracted, he might have noticed the brief flash of jealousy on Opera's face.

Why, Rena had.

**OOO**

**Cryarsis 49th, 1348 UCEC (United Church of Expel Calendar)  
Mid-Morning  
Advanced Heraldic Weapons Research Lab, Lacour Castle, Kingdom of Lacour, Expel**

Leon D.S. Geeste opened the door, and it honestly felt like he was stepping back into the past. The lab looked exactly the same as he remembered it... Well, perhaps not exactly—that Federation issued computer in the far corner was new, and it looked like someone had finally painted over the blast damage near the door. (One of Leon's first and few mistakes when he had first begun working in the lab—give him a break, he was only nine at the time!)

But by and large, still looked like the place he remembered from his youth...

But that feeling of deja vu was only an illusion, as things had radically and irrevocably changed from those days. If Leon ever doubted that, all he'd have to do is take a short jaunt around the castle grounds. The scars from the Battle of Lacour still defaced much of the north castle wall, for example.

"Mama? Papa?" Leon asked, his eyes narrowing against the gloom of the lab.

"Oh, Leon! There you are!" Florence Geeste exclaimed, straightening up from behind a stack of books. She immediately tapped the shoulder of the researcher next to her.

Seconds later, Murdoch Geeste popped up. "Ah, Leon!"

_No, _Leon thought, _things are different all over_... he mused as he watched Murdoch awkwardly grab for his crutch and drag himself standing.

The beasts had breeched the wall, you see, during the Battle of Lacour. Murdoch and Florence had rallied the heraldry research staff at the last minute—researchers though they may have been, they were all heraldic mages first. Working with the already exhausted royal guard and a handful of Federation Marines, the research staff had helped turn back the incursion... but the cost had been high—more so for some than others.

The rhythmic 'tock, tock, tock' of Murdoch's crutch dragged Leon out of his reverie. His parents were approaching. "Is it about time already?" Murdoch asked.

"We just lose all track of time down here..." Florence added dreamily, holding Murdoch's hand.

"Trust me, I remember..." Leon said dryly. Before he had taken up a position in the lab himself, he had been unsurprised if his parents had simply forgotten to come home some nights...

(But of course, that had _nothing_ to do with his decision to seek a lab position! Don't be ridiculous!)

"But yeah," Leon resumed, "the shuttle'll be taking off shortly."

"Do you really have to go so soon?" Florence asked, folding her hands. "It's been so nice having you around again."

"I know," Leon answered. "But I've got some things I need to check with back at the command center..." he trailed off.

It was clear by Florence's expression that was not the answer she had been hoping for, but Murdoch squeezed her hand. "Try to make it back soon, okay?" he asked. Then, tock, tock, tock, "Okay, come on—big group hug!"

After, Leon made for the door. "We love you!" Florence called as he reached for the handle.

"I love you guys, too," Leon called back, smiling as he exited the lab.

Unfortunately, the smile turned into what could only be described as a frozen grimace the second the door was closed behind him. Although he tried to keep an optimistic front up around his parents, the honest truth was anything but...

'_Of course I'm coming with you,'_ Leon had said the day he learned Iria had been promoted to head of Expel Affairs. If his beloved adoptive aunt was going back to join the fight for Expel (no, to _lead_ it!), the least Leon could do was put his college plans on hold to do the same!

Of course, the fact that he was now feeling _increasingly_ overwhelmed was something he hadn't anticipated in the least...

_There's just... so much _wrong _on Expel right now..._

His pessimistic internal monologue, however, was interrupted as he saw a familiar white coat bobbing down the hall in the opposite direction. "Bowman?" Leon asked aloud, a little stunned.

"Hrm?" the pharmacist asked, cracking one eye. He cocked his head to one side. "Leon?" he asked, surprised. "Hey, it _is _Leon!" he declared as he wandered over. "And so the prodigy returns triumphant."

"Hey now," Leon deflected modestly, "Let's have none of that..."

Bowman's eye arched. "Well, well, a sense of modesty." He smirked. "Looks like you _are _growing up!"

"Bowman!" Leon protested, only to be met with Bowman's smile.

"It's good to see you again, kiddo," Bowman said affectionately as he ruffled Leon's hair. "But if you'll excuse me," and with a nod, he shoved his hands back into his pockets and started back down the hall.

"B-Bowman!" Leon yelped. "H-hey, where're you going!?" he asked, picking up his pace to keep up with Bowman's lanky-yet-strident pace.

"I can't spend all day yakkin'," Bowman explained helpfully. "I've Very Important People to meet with," he said, the capital letters obvious in his phrasing.

"But what could drag you all the way up here to Lacour Castle? Even with Federation convoys, it's still a pretty long trip..."

"I've got an appointment with the King's Advisory council. I'm being debriefed on the El reclamation expedition from last spring."

Leon's expression turned skeptical. "They're only debriefing you about that _now_?" he asked.

"That's bureaucracy for you," Bowman declared off-handedly. "They've _finally_ gotten around to doing an autopsy on what went wrong last time." He scratched his cheek. "No doubt in preparation for another expedition sometime soon."

Bowman's expression suddenly turned shifty. "You know, even though they're allies, whichever country—Cross or Lacour—can officially 'reclaim' El first is going to get that much of a 'popularity' boost," he added in a conspiratorial tone.

In all honesty, Leon had never considered it like that before. But thinking about El reclamation in those (highly politicized) terms for too long made him uncomfortable, actually. "How many of the expeditions have you gone on?" Leon asked instead.

"All of them," Bowman answered humorlessly. "And if they send _another _expedition, I'll no doubt join that one as well." He wore a tired expression. "Just call me the Professor Emeritus of failed El reclamation efforts," he finished, though Leon couldn't help but note that his tone was not as bitter as it might have been. He just sounded... resigned.

And that was somehow worse coming from Bowman.

As the two climbed the stairs to the castle's main foyer, Bowman tried to change topics. "Hey," he began, "I'll bet you haven't seen the new photos of my darling baby girl yet, have you?" Bowman inquired, already reaching for his back pocket.

Both Leon's hands popped up in protest. "N-no, that's okay, Bowman! I mean, you've still got that meeting, right?"

Bowman looked disappointed. "But she's so adorable!" he continued, though he no longer was going for his wallet. "The pictures I had back on Edifice have _nothing _on the new shots I've got." He looked thoughtful for a moment. "Of course, even the photos can't compare to the real article."

Bowman snapped as an idea came to him. "Since we don't have time _now_, then you'll definitely have to come over for dinner one of these nights! Why, I've got Ashton staying over, too. We could make a night of it!"

"Uh... maybe..." Leon answered noncommittally. (The blues were already reestablishing themselves over Leon—the very thought of what kind of world Bowman's daughter was going to have to grow up in was apparently enough to set him off again.)

His less than overwhelming response caused Bowman's eyebrow to arch again. "Something else on your mind?" he asked.

"Just..." and here Leon gestured weakly to the environs, "everything's finally sinking in, I guess." He barked a short, depreciating laugh. "My father walks with a _crutch _now, for Tria's sake, and probably will for the rest of his life!"

"Things really aren't looking good, are they?" Bowman asked, anticipating where Leon's thoughts had carried him.

"_That_'s putting it lightly!" Leon protested. _And Bowman doesn't even have _my _security clearance! And if _he _thinks we're in trouble without having seen the things _I _have..._

Instead of voicing these thoughts, though... "But it's just such it's a mess out there," Leon admitted. "I... I hadn't realized how bad it had gotten..." he said, his insecurities from the last few days suddenly pouring out to his old comrade.

"I know, kid," Bowman answered. The two walked in silence for a few more minutes. At the end of the hallway from the conference room Bowman was headed, he finally came to a stop.

Leon, confusion cutting through his depression for the moment, cocked his head to one side. "Bowman?"

For a moment Bowman looked irritated, before folding his arms and sighing. "_Look_, you're right when you say that things aren't looking good right now. In fact," Bowman continued, his expression frank, "I have this nagging feeling that things are going to get worse before they get better.

(He rapped on one of his temples with a knuckle. "Knock on wood that I'm wrong, kid," he added as an aside.)

"And at any rate, you're probably feeling completely overwhelmed, wondering how you can solve it all. Well, hate to break it to you, Leon, but you _can't_.

At Leon's shocked expression, Bowman held up a hand. "Yeah, you're a genius. But we've been over this—even geniuses can't do everything on their own. And this problem—the rising beast population and heraldic pollution and _everything _the Ten Wise Men did to Expel—it's too big for any one person.

Bowman thrust his hands back into the pockets of his lab coat. "The only way _any _of us can beat this thing is by working together—Lacour, and Cross, and the Federation and _everybody_—and figure something out. The question isn't, 'How do I fix everything,' Leon. It's what can_ I_ doto start making things better?" He hunched his shoulders. "What _I _can do, apparently, is go along on doomed expeditions and make sure less people _die _than are supposed to."

"So the only question for _you _to consider is, what can _you_ do?" Bowman finished, brushing past Leon to march down the hall. "I've got faith that you'll figure _something _out—you always were a smart kid," Bowman offered breezily as he walked away—one arm raised in farewell—leaving Leon gaping behind him.

**OOO**

**November 29th, 370 SD  
0545 EST (earth standard time)  
FNN Headquarters, New York, North American Administrative District, Earth**

"Fifteen minutes, Chisato!" one of the interns called into the make-up room.

"Got it!" Chisato called back. She glanced at her make-up lady. "Everything all right?" she asked.

Her make-up artist—a felinefolk from the far side of Theta Sector, known to be something of a perfectionist—leaned in closely. "Vell..." she said in a thick accent, "I suppose it shall 'ave to do..." She peeled the plastic apron off Chisato. "Get going," she said resignedly.

"Thanks, Marl," Chisato said brightly, dusting off her smart pink and blue suit as she dashed from the room.

The entire studio was awash in the sort of barely controlled chaos that preceded the show every morning. It was both invigorating and exhausting to Chisato, and she honestly wondered if she would _ever _get used to it. Yes, it had been over a month and a half since she had taken over the anchor position for _Federation Morning_, but every morning still felt like a marathon to her.

(Sometimes she wondered how she even convinced herself to get out of bed, if she was going to be honest! But that was mostly only on Mondays...)

Slipping through a line of staffers headed for wardrobe, Chisato managed to slip back into her office. It, at least, was a respite from the hectic frenzy that was a news office in the morning. _Of course_, she reflected as she dropped down behind her desk, _that's because I'm so rarely here_. Indeed, one of the last places you could usually find Chisato was in her office, as a hundred duties and matters battled for her attention across the entirety of the FNN studios.

She sighed in relief as she settled into her comfortable chair and took another sip of her (already cooling) coffee. As she reclined, she cracked one eye open and allowed herself the luxury of a second to stare at the altogether impressive plate sitting on her desk (nestled between her terminal and her only picture of the old gang).

First runner up for the 370 SD Pulitzer Prize, in the 'Best Investigative Reporting' category; Chisato Madison, Federation News Network.

Now _that _had been something! That mere kernel of an idea she and Roger McNeil had tossed around had turned up something far more than just an overeager defense secretary. Suffice it to say, all her hard work investigating had resulted in quite the story. In fact, the entire sordid saga had shades of not just corporate greed, but cover-ups and bribery of high ranking officials to boot. (The list of bribed officials was long, and allegedly—though she could never _quite _prove it—even included a group of senior Federation Senators, including Senators Ripsburg, Spurious, E'Lyet, and Novacello.)

When she had presented her story, "Federation-Brand Pork: Questionable Spending in the War Effort," she caused quite a stir. And though it had just missed out on that most auspicious of awards—missing out on the Pulitzer to a report on suffering in the Lesonia DMZ ("Lesonia's Scars")—the piece had still gone a long way to developing Chisato's reputation as a serious newshound...

_And _not_ just another pretty faced anchor_, she thought in self-satisfaction.

"Knock, knock," said Daryl Cuvie—her news director—as he lightly rapped on the office's open door.

"Come in, come in," Chisato said, waving him in with her free hand.

"Five minutes, Chisato," he said, as he divided his attention between her and a hardcopy (paper, even!) of the latest wire reports.

"Thanks, Daryl," she responded. "Those the latest wires?" she asked, standing up and strolling to the office's door.

"Mmm," he answered, handing the sheaf of papers over. "Nothing too surprising today, I'm afraid," he said as they both headed out into the hall.

"All the better," Chisato replied, smirking as she flipped through the wire reports, circling items she wanted to keep an eye on with her trusty pen. "The plainer, the better. I've had to watch..." she flinched for a moment (and for a half second she could see Nede burning again), before continuing, "I've had to report too many sad stories already. A little boredom is fine by me."

"Didn't that used to be some old curse way back when?" Daryl asked. "About being forced to live in interesting times?"

Chisato, not really being that caught up on ancient Earth proverbs, just 'hrmphed' noncommittally as she continued scanning news items. (_Expel redeployments?_ she thought, mentally frowning)

As the two crossed into the main studio, Daryl punched Chisato lightly on shoulder. "Well, they need me up in the booth. Knock 'em out, Chisato!" he encouraged as he broke off and headed for the main broadcast booth.

(Chisato's martial art skills had become something of an office legend, you see, after her first field report saw her have to disarm a drunk who had gotten a little _too _into an Oktoberfest celebration. You don't mess with a reporter trained in the ancient, million year old art of Nedian Jujitsu.

Well, okay, it wasn't _actually _Jujitsu, but her moves resembled the Earth-based style enough that most people just took her word for it.)

Chisato made a beeline for her anchor desk. _Okay, Chisato_, she thought, _everything seems to be under control this morning, and_—

"Chisato! _Your hair_!" one of her assistants called, horrified. Chisato looked up at a nearby mirror, pen cap still hanging from her mouth. Her eyes widened. "Why didn't anyone _tell_ me my hair was still up!?" she complained, tugging out the rubber band and letting her hair settle back into its normal bob.

"Two minutes, Chisato!" one of the production crew called.

_Crap, crap, crap!_ Chisato thought, hurriedly tucking the last stray hairs in place before rushing the rest of the way to the anchor desk.

She just barely made it. The lead cameraman (used to Chisato's last minute arrivals) just nodded sagely. "Ready, Chisato?" he asked,

"About as much as usual," Chisato answered, sounding a bit harried.

The lead cameraman just broke into a grin, watching the station clock. As the time neared... "Okay, Chisato. We're live in, 3... 2.. 1..." The camera's red light blinked on. He silently mouthed 'we're on', and smoothly pointed to Chisato.

"I'm Chisato Madison, and welcome to another Federation Morning," she said easily, a bright smile on her face, "And here's today's top stories..."

**END CHAPTER 2**

**Author's Note**:

Well, a little bit of everything in this chapter, eh?

On a more serious note, I do apologize if this chapter seems a bit slow, but... Well, I just love all these characters so much, I just want to spend as much time with them as possible... you know, before the 'fireworks' start.

On more specific notes: I've always liked the idea of Leon best when his genius fails him a little, and he's forced to deal with realities that he can't just fix. _That_'s when he becomes far more interesting as a character—the cocky kid routines, on the other hand, get old quick (see: Roger S. Huxley—wait, did I just go there?). And I honestly think you could have something like a sitcom with just Leon and Bowman, as they play off one another so well.

The Opera and Chisato sections in this chapter tie to the larger fascination I've had with what the role of the media would be in a future space bureaucracy (something that was at least partially shot through _Empire's End _as well). It's all well and good to have a band of heroes single-handedly save the Earth/galaxy/universe from The Bad Guys, but how is that message going to get garbled when it's released to the general public? Besides, would the general population even _believe _that a billion year old superpower's biological WMDs had nearly destroyed the universe? (Don't even get me started on 4D beings...)

Finally, the idea of trivializing someone like Opera—who helped saved the freaking universe!—into (basically) a 24th century Paris Hilton also seems like the exact sort of thing a media culture like ours would do without batting an eye. Rampant (rabid?) celebrity worship, unfortunately, is not a societal ill I foresee us growing out of any time soon. (...okay, I'll get off my soap-box now...)


	4. All Roads Lead to Expel

**CHAPTER 3: ALL ROADS LEAD TO EXPEL**

**December 3rd, 370 SD  
1603 EST (earth standard time)  
3rd Fleet Headquarters, Level 4 Section 00 (FleetCom), Moonbase, Earthsphere**

"...and finally, rumors are _still _buzzing about Tetragenesis heiress Opera Vectra and a mysterious, as yet unidentified Federation soldier," the perky blonde anchor began. "Could an officer and a gentleman be what's keeping the eligible Miss Vectra in the Earthsphere? CNR takes a closer look at a possible Space Force love connection! All this and more at the top of the—"

Claude grunted, shrugging his shoulders and walking quicker past the blaring vid-screens in the officer's lounge. He had never had much of a use for the 'Celebrity News Report' channel; doubly so since becoming their lead story!

But Opera's pick of meeting places had been well chosen–between the dim-lighting, leafy greens, and that arm Claude had thrown up at the last moment, it seems like none of the photographers had gotten a good shot of him.

In fact, even _Rena _(who admitted to watching CNR as a guilty pleasure) hadn't recognized Claude at first, until he told her. And _that _had only set her to laughing hysterically for a good twenty minutes or so.

Claude forced himself to banish all thoughts of CNR and Opera and even Rena as he came to a stop in front of the office of one Commander Forsythe. He keyed the intercom inlaid next to the metal doors. "This is Lieutenant Claude Kenni, reporting," he stated.

"Enter," came the (slightly) muffled reply.

Claude keyed the panel next to the door a second time, and the door slid open. Commander Forsythe, a fit looking man with short cropped black hair, sat behind his desk, reviewing a file on a command tablet. "Lieutenant Kenni, excellent. Please," Forsythe said, gesturing to the chair across from his desk, "sit down."

Once Claude was settled, Forsythe set the tablet down and leaned back in his chair. "Well, then, I suppose you must be wondering why I've asked you here."

Claude, doing his best not to show his nervousness, nodded. He had spent much of the previous night wracking his brain on just that topic. His last officer review had only been a few weeks ago, so that was out. That only left some sort of disciplinary action... or so a little voice in the back of his mind tried repeatedly to convince him.

For the first time, Forsythe's expression softened. "Now, now, I know that look—like a kid dragged into the principal's office after school." Forsythe raised a hand. "Well, let me assuage your worries, then, Lieutenant Kenni. This," and here Forsythe picked up another tablet from his desk, "is why I called you in today."

The commander slid the tablet across the desk to Claude, who obediently picked it up and began scanning the tablet's flash page. After only a few seconds, his eyes widened. "But... But this is..."

"New orders, Lieutenant Kenni," Commander Forsythe answered, leaning back in his chair. "You've just been assigned to the EFS _Radiant_. Congratulations."

"The _Radiant_?" Claude asked, already getting excited—he had been waiting for a berth on a space-faring vessel for _months_. "Are you serious?"

(The _Radiant _was something of a legend in its own right in the fleet. During the First Lesonia War, the _Radiant_—battered and alone—had somehow managed to hold off a Lesonia marauding fleet, protecting the Earth colony on Teyren III. And then it somehow _still _managed to rejoin the main Federation fleet for the decisive Battle of Aldrin.)

Commander Forsythe nodded. "Yes. It's all there in your briefing notes. The _Radiant _will be pulling into port on the 6th. You're to report to Captain Mitchell by 0715 hours on the 8th. And the _Radiant _will be shipping out on the 9th."

"So quickly?" Claude asked, scanning the relevant briefing notes on the tablet. "That's barely three day in dock..."

"The _Radiant_'s got a special mission, and it's only stopping here to pick _you _up."

Claude looked dubious. "Me?"

Forsythe nodded again. "The _Radiant_'s been ordered to Expel, and you, Lieutenant Kenni, have just been assigned as their resident Expel expert."

Claude's head felt like it was spinning all the way home. In fact, if pressed, he doubted he could recall _anything _of his walk back home. The next thing that he _did _remember was the hab.'s door sliding open and finding all the lights on.

"Rena?" he called.

"In here," her muffled voice answered back from the bedroom. As he turned the corner, he was surprised to see Rena packing a duffel bag of her own.

"I take it you've heard?" Claude asked.

She nodded, without stopping what she was doing. "Yep. Commander Forsythe actually sent me a v-mail this morning, asking me to volunteer for the _Radiant_'s deployment."

She cocked her head to one side, a blouse half folded in her hands. "Though I get the feeling that if I hadn't volunteered I would have been ordered along anyway." She shook her head, finally tucking the blouse away. "Something big is coming for Expel," she added finally, "and I think even the military brass can feel it."

Claude exhaled slowly, before easing himself into a chair tucked into the corner of the room. He fiddled with the command tablet, listlessly flipping through his briefing notes without really reading any of them. "Have you contacted Westa yet?" he asked. "I'll bet she'll be pretty excited that you'll be on-planet again."

Rena shook her head. "I was going to do that after dinner, actually." Her expression blanched. "_If _I can manage to get a connection." Rena had managed to get Westa a small communication set a while back, but its range and power left a lot to be desired. Most of the time, it worked (if with a bit of static) but on some days it was as if Expel just didn't exist.

When Rena didn't elaborate any further, Claude frowned, eyeing her from the corner of his eye. "Are you nervous about going back?" he asked after a long pause.

Rena brushed a lock of hair from her face, as she zipped up her first duffel. "Yes and no, I guess," she answered, her tone odd.

When Rena didn't offer anything more, Claude set the tablet down on a nightstand and leaned forward. "Rena, are you still feeling guilty about leaving?" he asked.

"Why would I feel guilty?" Rena asked rhetorically, managing to not really answer the question in the process.

But Claude refused to be deterred. "Listen, I know that a part of you thinks that you should've _stayed _on Expel—"

Rena stopped packing. "That's not what I—"

"One more healer couldn't have made that much of a difference—"

"Couldn't I?" she snapped suddenly, her calm façade cracking. Her hands had balled up into fists.

The sudden heat in her voice stunned Claude after a moment. "E-excuse me?" Claude asked.

"It's nothing," she amended after a moment.

"Rena," Claude chided.

She sighed in a terribly aggrieved manner, casting a quick look up to the ceiling. "_Fine_," she conceded, her tone tight as she swiveled to face Claude. "Fine, Claude, you were right. I feel guilty, okay?" Rena turned back to her packing, apparently hoping that admission would be enough to get Claude to drop the issue.

Unfortunately, Claude could be incredibly bull-headed when he wanted to be. "But you don't _know _that you could have helped with those—"

She whipped around to face Claude again, her eyes blazing. "No, I _don't _know. But I _might've_," she countered heatedly. "Did those Federation heraldic scientists _know _the terrain? Know the people? _I _did." She threw her hands into the air. "It took them _months _to start disseminating healing crests to Expellian mages. I _know _Expellian heraldic theory—I could have helped make that process go smoother."

Claude disagreed. "Neither of us even _heard _about those problems till months _after _the fact, Rena!"

Rena scoffed, which was an odd sound coming from her. "Well it doesn't change the fact that I should have stayed," she finished. And all Claude could hear was _I shouldn't have gone with you_, even if that wasn't exactly what she had said.

After a moment, Rena noticed the stunned and hurt expression on Claude's face. "No, no, Claude, I didn't mean it like..." she tried to amend hastily.

"I'm sorry I brought it up," he said stiffly, picking his tablet back up.

Rena let slip what sounded like a frustrated sigh. "Claude..." She stared blankly down at her half filled duffel bags.

Silence.

Rena resumed packing.

"Have you heard from Opera?" Claude asked finally, apparently trying to change the subject.

Rena's eyebrow didn't _quite _twitch. She paused in her packing, nodding. "Uh... yeah." She nodded towards the room's terminal. "She sent us a v-mail, actually." A beat. "She's leaving Moonbase."

"_Leaving_?" Claude asked, sounding surprised.

"It's all in the v-mail... But the short story is that the paparazzi have basically camped out outside her hab., and show no intent of leaving any time soon."

"But why would she just up and leave...?" Claude asked, in an injured tone.

If Rena thought anything odd about it, well, she wasn't saying anything.

**OOO**

**Cryarsis 62nd, 1348 UCEC (United Church of Expel Calendar)  
Sunset  
Workshop, Neuyman Residence, Linga, Kingdom of Lacour, Expel**

"Blast!" Graft shouted in a rare display of anger as he smacked a hand into his work bench.

Precis' head snapped up at the sudden sharp nose, nearly dropping her reading material in the process. She was sitting in a battered old recliner she had dragged over to the wide workshop gate. With the light breeze, it was an incredibly comfortable spot to pick her way through yet another in the endless series of (mostly redundant) Federation reports.

"I can't move _forward _with the models if I can get any support!" he declared heatedly. "It's right _there_," Graft said, boring holes into his chalkboard with his glare. "I can _see _it!" he finished, thumping the bench with his fist again.

Precis just watched him for a long moment.

"It's not a radiation in the traditional sense..." he continued explaining to no one in particular. "It's _heraldic _based, so of course it won't affect living manner in the same manner. There _wouldn't _be any physical signs, other than enhancement of aggressiveness and strength..."

Cancer of the body swapped for a cancer of the psyche. Precis couldn't decide which was more horrifying.

"And if its heraldic based," Graft elaborated, arms folded, "then that means that it's subject to Kurtz absorption just like everything else... I just can't... _quite_..." He trailed off, smoldering at the chalkboard.

When he didn't resume, Precis slowly set down the files she had been reading and languidly rose from her armchair. She turned to Bobot, having been perched precariously on the back of the chair. "Bobot, go put some coffee on, okay?"

Bobot chirped once and snapped Precis a sharp salute before leaping to the floor and dashing to the other room.

Nodding to herself as Bobot got to work, Precis crossed the workshop to the chalkboard and her father. She clapped his shoulder. "Come on, Dad, we can do this, just you and me," she soothingly, even as she moved to sit at her old her workstation across, from where her dad sat. "Just like old times, right?" she asked.

Graft only stared at her. "What about your reports? Doesn't the Research Board need those by this evening?"

Precis was already organizing sheets on her side of the desk (it had been quite a while since she had used it last) and didn't slow as she answered. "They can wait."

When Graft still looked unsure, Precis looked back to him and nodded once in encouragement. Slowly (and a bit numbly), he trundled his way over to his seat. Sinking down into the well worn leather, he took a deep breath. Taking up his pencil and scratching against the pad, he slowly started back from the beginning.

**OOO**

**Cryarsis 63rd, 1348 UCEC (United Church of Expel Calendar)  
Predawn  
Jean Pharmacy, Linga, Kingdom of Lacour, Expel**

Bowman Jean rubbed at his eyes, before trying to stifle a yawn. Dropping his cleaning rag, he scanned the pharmacy once again. "Aw, man... I've still got a lot of work to do."

He had only just returned from his trip to Lacour Castle. Although Nineh ran the store while he was away, there was a lot only _he _could do, and it tended to pile up while he was off gallivanting and the like. Once his counter top was clean, for example, he'd be spending a good part of the morning mixing up a few batches of Bowman-brand cough syrup...

But before he could get much farther on the day's awaiting tasks, the shop's front door bell rang weakly. Bowman looked up just in time to see Ashton, looking miserable, slouch in. "Ashton!" Bowman called, "There you are!"

Ashton cringed. Apparently he hadn't been expecting to run into Bowman this early in the morning. _Then again, _Bowman thought, _what sane man _would _be up at this hour?_ Of course, at this, Bowman was forced to reexamine his comrade.

"Ah, Bowman..." Ashton began. "I, uh... I didn't think you were back yet..."

"Just got back last night, actually," Bowman explained, shrugging. "I guess the fine gents over at Lacour Castle got tired of rehashing their errors with me."

"Oh. That's, ah, that's good..." Ashton answered, still looking distracted.

Bowman, however, refused to be turned away so easily. "So, where have you been off to, lately?" he pressed. "I haven't seen you since I got back!"

"Out," Ashton offered. After a moment, realizing how curt he had sounded, he coughed lightly. "Training," he explained further, patting his short swords affectionately. "Helps me think."

Bowman, his expression thoughtful, nodded. "Things not going well?" he asked. A nod towards the south-side of town made it obvious to what Bowman was referring to.

Ashton shook his head sadly, and somehow that spoke more eloquently than anything else he could have said. He slowly trundled towards the stairs at the back of the shop, probably angling to get some sleep before the day officially started.

Bowman nodded once in acknowledgement. "Well, buck up," he encouraged.

Ashton's expression made it pretty clear how comforting Bowman's new advice was.

"I know, I know, that doesn't sound exactly like sage advice," Bowman quickly explained, waving a hand. "But just listen," he continued, holding up a finger. "Precis is just... under a lot of pressure right now. You know girls like her. They were made for times of peace, not war." He shrugged, plunging his hands into his pockets. "Once things settle down, I'm positive that the two of you can—"

Bowman was interrupted by a siren going up across the town. The two men quickly hurried over to the plate glass window at the front of the pharmacy. A fire had broken out just east of the main LU campus. "That's... not a good sign," Bowman deadpanned.

After a moment, he heard the soft steps of his wife coming down the stairs. "Bowman...?" she asked uncertainly, peering into the darkness of the rest of the shop.

"Here, Nineh," he answered swiftly.

"What's going on?" she asked quickly, drawing closer to Bowman while she wrapped a shawl around her nightclothes.

"Looks like another few beasts got a little too interested in our fair little berg." He scratched his ear. "I'm sure our fine friends over in Federation Security will get this all wrapped up in no time," he said soothingly, as he put an arm around his wife.

"It wouldn't hurt to lend them a hand..." Ashton stated out of the blue. His dragons exchanged looks.

Bowman frowned. _Uh-oh_. He was about to say something but before he could, Ashton nodded determinedly. "I'm going to head over there," he declared. And faster than Bowman could say, _you're pushing yourself too hard_, Ashton was out the door.

And suddenly, Bowman realized he had a major urge to join his old comrade out there. Before the thought had even fully formed, he cast a guilty look at his wife. She rolled her eyes, and gracefully slipped out from under his arm. "If you _must_, then get going," she said with some show. "I'll make sure the store opens on time."

Bowman practically looked like a kid given free reign of a candy store, as he dashed over to the counter (behind which he still kept his old gauntlets). After a moment, though, his expression blanched. He paused, half bent over the counter, an arm reaching out for his gauntlets. "Long trips to Lacour Castle, going out to fight before it's even dawn... It seems like I'm always running off these days." He scratched his head. "I guess I'm hardly husband of the year material, am I?"

"Get going, Bowman Jean," Nineh replied sagely, smirking and shaking her head. "I won't be mad as long as you promise to come back."

This earned her one of Bowman's trademarked grins. "You know it," he declared, before grabbing his gauntlets up from behind the counter and dashing out the front door to catch up to Ashton.

**OOO**

**December 8th, 370 SD  
1209 EST (earth standard time)  
D-Ring, Moonbase, Earthsphere**

Opera grimly picked up her bags, as the Tetragenesis cutter _Erebator Nyx _settled into its docking berth. Steeling her nerves, her grip reflexively tightened on her bag's handle as the _Erebator_'s walkway slowly folded down to where she stood.

_I don't know what I was thinking_, she thought tiredly, watching the _Erebator_'s landing process with distracted eyes. _It was a stupid thing to come to Moonbase in the first place._ She shifted, hugging her arms to herself. _Rena's my _friend_, and Claude's not going to..._

She bit her lip, and struggled to push such thoughts out of her mind... which of course, failed miserably. In the end, the only thing she _knew _for sure was that she was _glad_the photogs had managed to blow her cover, giving her _something _approximating a good excuse to leave Moonbase. _Probably the one good turn those hangers-on have ever done me_.

With all airlocks secured, a group of five tetrageniots tumbled out of the hatch. Each wore an oddly archaic looking uniform—something that would not look out of place on a European soldier from Earth's 19th century—and marched with military precision. The man at their head—a tetrageniot who looked to be just north of 30, had wispy, thinning brown hair, and was a bit heavyset—came to a stiff parade rest in front of Opera.

"Your Grace," the tetrageniot said solemnly, sketching out a salute. "I am Rifle-Leader Vass Stellan, 13th Vectra House Guard, Reds and Royals. I'll be commanding the guard retinue for your return trip to Tetragenesis."

Opera nodded, looking drawn. "Rifle-Leader," she acknowledged, with a slight nod. "Well then, shall we?"

Rifle-Leader Stellan saluted. "Of course, ma'am. This way," he said, gesturing for her to precede him up the ramp. His four men flanked either side of the walkway, phase rifles at rest on each's shoulder.

Opera failed to raise an eyebrow at any of these things; to her they were simply second nature. While Tetragenesis—as a full member of the Earth Federation—ceded any and all true military force to Federation armed forces, the Tetragenesis House Guards were a special case.

(A tradition dating back to the original Four House Accords and the founding of modern Tetragenesis society, the House Guards were an integral part of the pomp and circumstance that formed so much of Tetragenesis' governing processes. In fact, as each of the four ruling houses of Tetragenesis viewed their personal House Guard divisions as so central to their identity, _retaining_ the House Guards even after joining the Federation had been a key stipulation in Tetragenesis' signing of the Federation Charter. Admittedly, the House Guards were little more than for show anymore, but it was the thought that was important...)

Once aboard, the cutter's hatch eased shut. Through the closing doors, Opera caught her last look at Moonbase... (Somehow, it seemed appropriate that her last view of the station was a number of humans in maintenance crew jumpsuits running around in what could be described as a vague panic...)

RL Stellen dismissed his men back to their stations, casting Opera an apologetic glance. "I apologize, Your Grace," he explained, nodding after his men. "We are a bit... _shorthanded_ on this mission, and unfortunately we just do not have the staffing to provide you a full honor guard while on-ship."

Opera imagined that the relatively small crew of the _Erebator _was her parents' idea of a reprimand for her 'years in the wilderness.' _Joke's on them_, she thought cheerily. When Opera considered the possibility of having to troop around the cramped corridors of the _Erebator _with four honor guards marching in step with her... Well, this was one punishment by her parents she had no real qualms with.

"That's fine," she said quickly. "To the bridge, then?" she asked. Stellan nodded.

As the two entered the bridge, the small bridge crew immediately rose to attention. Opera held up a hand. "Please, enough with the parade stances. Everyone at ease." After exchanging glances, the bridge crew returned to their stations, though their attention never left her.

"Well, to introductions, then," RL Stellan said suddenly. "At helm we have Marksman Artilla, at operations, Marksman Novarose, and Gunnery Chief Worthington at tactical." Each identified officer nodded in turn.

"Charmed, I'm sure," Opera said lightly, smiling.

"And of course you know Executor Pallin," RL Stellan continued, gesturing to the balding tetrageniot in the sharply cut suit and ceremonial half-cloak of deep maroon velvet. Pallin stood awkwardly to one side of the captain's chair.

"Ah, yes..." Opera said coolly. "Executor."

"Your Grace," the splotchy Executor said, "it's been so long."

_Not long enough_, Opera thought. Instead, Opera offered the more neutral, "Indeed."

"Both Lady Ophia and your father, Lord Vectra, wished me to extend their deep joy that you have finally decided to resume your rightful place at the head of the next generation of the Vectras," Pallin said formally.

By his tone, it was obvious that he felt none of the 'deep joy' he spoke off. Not that this surprised Opera in the least. It had been Executor Pallin, after all, who had recommended to her parents that a good boarding school would cure her 'rebellious' streak. It had been Executor Pallin who had suggested disowning her when she had first turned to archeology and refused to return to the Vectra Satellite. ('Thankfully,' Opera reflected, Pallin had only won _one_ of those arguments...)

"How kind of you to say," she responded, in the formal, neutral tone she had hoped to never have to use again. It had been one of the first things she had been expected to learn—it was the only tone that one could use at court, after all. (Well, at least, if you wanted to keep your enemies to a minimum...)

Opera realized that her attention had started to wander; Pallin was already outlining her pre-approved schedule. "...full slate of events once we're back in Genesisspace, including a welcoming ceremony at Vectra Hall. Lady Vectra has sent along a number of primers on several of the ministries you'll begin overseeing in the next week or so, and asked that you began reading them as soon as possible. So, if you'll follow me to your state room..."

"Well, then," Opera began, doing no such thing and instead dropping into the captain's chair, "I suppose I'll have to tell you sooner rather than later. I hate to break it to all of you, but there's been a change of plans. We're going to be making a slight detour."

"A... _detour_?" Executor Pallin asked warily. Opera was deviating from the script, which was something that Pallin _knew _could only lead to trouble.

Stellan, standing next to the helmsman, seemed far more excited at the possibility—he did so _rarely _get off the Vectra Satellite these days. "A detour, Your Grace?" he asked.

Opera nodded, looking prim and confidant in the captain's chair. "Indeed. Marksman Artilla, please set course for the Ark System, all possible speed."

The Ark System... Home of Expel, and located in the opposite direction from Tetragenesis.

"B-but you _can't_!" the Executor sputtered. "We have a schedule! Your parents! They're expecting you to—"

Opera fixed him with her best aristocratic stare, half-rising from her seat. "And this is an _order _from the next in line to the head of the Vectra family. Are you going to disobey?" she asked, her tone dangerous.

Executor Pallin looked as if he was on the verge of an epileptic seizure, but somehow managed to hold his tongue.

Opera turned back to RL Stellan. "Rifle Leader?" she asked.

RL Stellan saluted. "At once, Your Grace," he answered, barely suppressing a grin.

_Glad to see _someone _approves of my idea_...

"Excellent!" Opera declared cheerily, as she dropped back into her chair. "In that case, RL, all ahead full please." She interlaced her hands. If her reunion with Claude and Rena had been...derailed, she had at least the rest of the old gang.

**OOO**

**December 17th, 370 SD  
1141 + 6:00 (earth standard time – adjusted six hours for expel local)  
Main conference room, EXCOM Command Center, Central Cross, Expel**

"Gentlemen! Gentlemen, _please_!" Iria shouted over the din of a heated argument.

When her entreaties were ignored and the two men Iria decided she had had enough.

She slammed her open palm down on her desk. Besides making a satisfying sharp crack and rattling the snowman snow globe on her desk (her only concession to the holiday season), it did an _excellent _job of stunning the two arguing men into silence. "_That's enough_!" she roared.

(For a second she basked in the cowed looks on both men, before shaking it off and reminding herself that she had work to do.)

"Now, I don't know _what _has got the two of you so _damn _worked up," she continued, her tone deadly serious, "but we're here this afternoon so _I _can put a stop to it."

The two said nothing, only exchanging sullen glances at one another. Iria took a moment to size the two men up.

The man on the left was General Mackwell, second in command of the Federation Marine detachment on Expel. He was in his late forties and had dark brown hair; his Marine uniform was sharp and pressed, though it strained against his massive figure. The fact that he—considered by nearly everyone in the military to be judicious and level headed—had been dragged into an argument of this intensity said something.

The man on the right was in his late twenties. An Ostin Manufacturing ID badge pinned to the lapel of his pinstripe suit identified him as 'Vincent McConahey.' Between his arrogant expression and slicked back black hair, Iria had a feeling she knew his type. This feeling was only reinforced by his oversized, undoubtedly over priced, gold wristwatch and the designer sunglasses hanging from his suit pocket.

"Okay," Iria began slowly. "Mr. McConahey, right? Let's start with your side of the story, shall we?"

"Gladly," McConahey started, leaning forward. "I had merely _inquired_," he began, his tone managing both to be condescending and petulant at the same time, "if I could borrow a Marine detachment for short fact-finding mission to the Hoffman Ruins. And then this _ogre_ of a soldier flipped out, and—"

By this point, it was clear General Mackwell had had enough. "I _will not _pull my Marines off the line just so some corporate lackeys can poke around for a faster way to make a buck!" Mackwell exploded, glaring at the Ostin rep angrily.

"A faster way to make a buck!?" McConahey fired back. "_Hardly_, sir. Hardly. Whatever that mineral is under the Hoffman Ruins, it could be _vitally _important to the future of the Federation!" the Ostin rep snarled. "The Federation brass has _already _green lit an expedition for next month. All _I'm _asking for is a Marine detachment to lay down some ground work before they get here!"

General Mackwell was about to fire back, when Iria held up a hand. "General Mackwell," Iria started, in her best diplomatic voice, "I understand your concern—"

"Do you?" Mackwell asked sharply, a hint of resentment in his voice.

His question was met with Iria's coldest stare. He shifted uncomfortably, coughing. "My apologies, Commodore. I forgot myself."

Iria's glare moderated... _somewhat_. "Now, I understand that emotions are running high... on _both _sides," she added quickly, before the Ostin rep could protest. "But at the end of the day, we're all on the same side here."

"Now, _that said_," she continued, turning her attention back to the Ostin rep, "the final say for your little... 'fact finding mission' rests with me, and my answer is no. We're stretched thin enough as it is." Iria turned her attention back to General Mackwell. "General, you are dismissed to resume your normal duties. Understood?"

Mackwell looked relieved, and even let a tiny smile steal onto his face as he saluted. "Gladly." He glared at McConahey as he turned and left Iria's office.

McConahey's sour expression made it look like he had been sucking on lemons. Iria laced her fingers before turning her attention back to him. "Mr. McConahey," she began, "Did your superiors _ask _you to send a preliminary party down there?" Iria asked, having tired both of McConahey and the little games he seemed to be playing.

McConahey shifted, looking uncomfortable. "Well, not as such, _per se_, but, it was—"

Iria's eyes narrowed. "Let's cut the bullshit, shall we, Mr. McConahey? They _didn't_, because if they _had _I would have heard about it. Now, let me tell you what I see," she continued, over McConahey's choked protests. "What _I _see is a middle management _peon _trying to co-op Federation military assets—good hardworking men and women who are trying to do a _job _and protect this planet—for his own gain. In this case, getting down below the Hoffman Ruins first and, with any luck, chancing upon a discovery that could say, make a career?" she bit out.

For a long moment, McConahey just stared at her blankly. Then, "Th-That's not true!" he protested, in the incredulous tone of someone who knows he's lying. "Th-The Hoffman Ruins are _known _to be dangerous!" he continued, obviously grasping at straws. "You can't ignore the security risks the survey team will be under, and a scouting mission could—"

"Oh I know all too well about the security risks, actually," she replied, "because my _son_ is going to be _leading_ the Federation detachment escorting your people down there.

"Now, if you'll _excuse _me," Iria said, her tone icy, "I have _actual_ work to do."

And she relished the look of bitterness and defeat on McConahey's face as he slunk out of her office. Honestly, sometimes she didn't know what the bigger problem was facing Expel: was it truly the ravaging beasts on the ground, as most seemed to think, or the soulless corporate vampires waiting in the wings...?

"Oh Expel, what ever is going to happen to you?" she lamented to the quiet of her office.

**OOO**

**December 20th, 370 SD  
1833 EST (earth standard time)  
FNN Headquarters, New York, North American Administrative District, Earth**

Chisato fidgeted in her office chair, staring at her terminal's screen. The screen read _Connecting..._ and had shown no sign of changing for the better part of a half hour. Drumming her fingers, she scanned her office (absently noting the holiday decorations, which honestly meant very little to her) before she turned to stare out her office window. She was just able to make out the orange skies just beyond the skyscrapers of the New York skyline.

"Who are you holding for?" a voice asked abruptly out of nowhere.

Chisato started, taken by surprise. It took her a moment to realize that the voice had come from her terminal, and a pretty young female Federation officer was looking at her expectantly from the screen. "Ah," Chisato began, taking a second to clear her throat, "Commdore Silvestoli-Kenni."

"One moment please," the female technician said, and it was right back to that damnable _Connecting... _screen.

_Figures_, Chisato thought darkly.

But before she could fume for too long, her connection was finally established. The screen switched to an interior shot of a military-style hab. And sitting front and center was a sleepy looking lesser fellpool teenager.

Chisato had been expected Commodore Silvestoli-Kenni herself, so it was something of a surprise to see a sleepy looking Leon—complete in a nightshirt—instead. "Commodore Silvestoli-Kenni's quarters," Leon began, even as he scrubbed sleep out of his eyes.

"Ah, Leon!" Chisato responded, cheered immediately by seeing the young man. "Is Commodore Silvestoli-Kenni unavailable?" Chisato asked.

"Chisato?" Leon asked, sounding a bit confused. He blinked for a moment, before his mind started to process what she had asked. "Uh, right. Yeah, Auntie Iria's meetings ran late again today." Leon suddenly looked abashed. "Oh, that's right! Your interview was supposed to be tonight, wasn't it?"

Chisato scratched her ear. "Well, calling it an _interview _is a bit strong... I was really just hoping to get her responses to a few of the more bombastic remarks Senator Novacello made yesterday morning."

At this, Leon scowled. "Novacello again?" He turned his nose up at the very thought of the notoriously noxious Senator. "I wish he'd just leave Aunt Iria alone."

Chisato nodded. "You and me both. But he's in charge of the Space Forces Oversight Committee, and it's an election year, so I think he's going to keep the saber rattling up at least until after the elections." Well, 'saber rattling' was being a bit kind. Most meetings of the SFOC seemed to devolve into Novacello's personal haranguing against the Expel mission, levying everything from graft to intentional incompetence against Iria and her staffers.

"You're probably right," Leon conceded, sounding irritable. He folded his arms, and for a moment, Chisato was reminded of his younger days, when a scowl and folded arms had been so much more frequent.

"Anyway," Chisato continued, "tell Commodore Silvestoli-Kenni I called, okay?" she asked. If Iria didn't put out a response to Novacello's outrageous accusations soon, the news media (well, excluding Chisato herself, of course) would begin to wonder openly if perhaps the honorable senior Senator from Earth had a point... regardless of how patently _ridiculous _most of his charges were!

"Oh, and before I go, any comments _you'd_like to make about the situation on Expel?" Chisato asked. "Strictly off the record, of course," she added, with a wink.

"Ah... not at this time?" Leon said, uncertain and looking a little uncomfortable with Chisato's probing.

"Oh, come on. I know that your security clearance must be burning a hole in your pocket even as we speak! There must be _something _interesting that the Federation brass doesn't want to leak out!"

"Chisato!" Leon complained, looking uncomfortable, "Auntie Iria only got me that security clearance to get me into a couple of research labs! I can't just start leaking things—she trusts me!"

"But don't you _want _to be the Deep Throat of our generation?" she put forward, her tone a bit cavalier.

"Deep what?" Leon asked, frowning.

_I guess I'm picking up more Earth slang than I thought..._Chisato thought. "Nevermind. Just remember: if there's ever anything you end up _wanting _to share with the Federation at large..." she trailed off.

"I've got your number, Chisato," Leon reassured her.

As she cut the connection, Chisato sighed. With deployments increasing (including, she found out only a few days later, Claude and Rena and yet _another _Ostin research team) to Expel, with Senator Novacello apparently on a one man crusade to either get reelected or stop the Expel mission (or _both_), with the beast attacks only continuing to rise in intensity... Expel was shaping up to be _the _story of the coming year.

_Expel, Expel, Expel,_ she reflected. _Of course you'd only get _really _interesting after I get booted off you..._

Fidgeting, she turned to some of her back paperwork... but all the while she couldn't quite fight off a restless feeling.

**OOO**

**December 27th, 370 SD  
Midafternoon  
Path to Shingo Forest, Outskirts of Arlia Village, Kingdom of Cross, Expel**

_Has it really only been four years? _Rena thought, as she crossed the bridge from Shingo Forest into Arlia proper. Expel's moon hung low and visible in the sky, and at a breeze a small flock of birds took off from a nearby tree. Like Leon had earlier, for a moment Rena was enveloped in a wave of nostalgia. The scene was almost exactly like the day she had brought home what she had thought was the Warrior of Light.

She paused, about halfway across the bridge, and closed her eyes. She could just imagine Claude as he was, walking along with her that day. His uniform was dusty and dirt-covered, and his eyes were wide as he tried to take in everyone new on Expel at once...

She opened her eyes, and Claude-from-yesteryear faded.

(Of course he did. The real Claude was at that moment half a world away—still plenty distant, even if not as far as it used to be for humans and Expellians alike—leading a Federation exploration mission into the ever-hostile Hoffman Ruins.)

She resumed her trek back into town, her fine Earth-made boots crunching along the gravel road.

Arlia was growing, slowly but surely. It wasn't much, but Rena could tell—a new room added here, a road leading off to new cabins there. Even the church had expanded its facilities. All this meant new residents, many of which Rena didn't recognize from her infrequent trips back home.

Actually, many of the new residents stopped and stared at her as she passed. She supposed that she must stand out like a sore thumb now. She self-consciously brushed a hand over her lightweight, blue and white polymer jacket. She must be so far removed from the hometown girl she had been, now in her own version of 'alien raiments'.

Fate had a funny sense of humor sometimes.

_And by the looks of it, fate isn't finished today... _Rena thought wonderingly as she crossed Arlia's small stream and neared her mother's house, only to see an unexpected visitor waiting just outside the door.

The same distant expression... the same battered blue traveling cloak... the same blade hanging loosely at his hip... Dias, at least, was a constant.

"Dias!" she called, her easy stroll from before quickly changing into a quick sprint.

Dias had been staring at her window—like her, had he been searching through past memories? At any rate, he turned when she called his name. Upon seeing Rena, the edge of his mouth crept up ever so incrementally—about as close to a smile as he was capable of giving.

"Little sister," he said in his rumbling voice, as she threw her arms around him. He even conceded to put an arm around her shoulders. (It _had _been a while since they had last seen each other.)

"What are you doing here?" Rena asked, breathlessly. "I mean, it's been so long, and then just to see you _here _like this is—"

"I didn't expect to see you," he said, managing to completely avoid answering her question in the process.

But Rena was used to Dias' _unique _way of managing conversations, and smoothly kept up. "I'm on a mission—I got temporary leave to return home for a visit."

"Have you seen to your mother yet?" Dias asked, his eyes already scanning the area, like they always did. (It wasn't that he was bored; rather, on the day his family died, he swore to never get taken by surprise ever again. Most people, however, just took it as a slight. Rena knew better.)

Rena nodded. "This morning. I just... wanted to go for a walk."

"Claude?" Dias asked.

"Not here," she answered. "One of us had to stay with the mission."

Dias took a break from scanning the town for trouble to fix her with a strange look. For a crazy half second, she was afraid that Dias would ask if everything was all right between them.

(Was it because she was afraid of what she might answer?)

Sanity then reasserted itself when Dias resumed his watchful gaze over Arlia. Rena let out a breath that she hadn't realized she had been holding. "Have _you_ seen mother yet?" she asked.

Dias shook his head 'no,' once, slowly. By his expression, it looked as if the idea had never crossed his mind. _He probably would have stared up at my window for hours, and then just left without saying goodbye if I hadn't chanced into him_, Rena intuited.

"Well, we simply can't have that!" Rena declared, doing a remarkable imitation of her happier younger years. "You're coming in for dinner right now!"

And despite his tough and gruff façade, Dias offered her no resistance as she tugged him by the arm, into the house. Westa, of course, was overjoyed to see Dias and smoothly and seamlessly modified their dinner plans to include him. As usually, Westa's ability to produce massive quantities of delicious food on incredibly short notice was put to good use.

After dinner, Rena twisted Dias' arm and convinced him to stay for the night. As Westa cleaned up from that night's feast, Rena led Dias to the guest room.

"Have you spoken to Chisato?" she asked impulsively as they climbed the stairs.

If the question took him off-guard, he didn't show it. "No," he said quietly.

"She's doing good, you know," Rena offered quickly.

"I imagine so," he answered. And that was the end of the conversation.

They crested the stairs. Night had fallen, and the second floor hallway was dark. Only a few steps down the hallway, Rena realized that Dias had stopped. She turned back to look at him.

"Earlier," he began with difficulty, "You asked me what I was doing here..." In the darkness of the hall, it was hard for Rena to fully make out his features, but... it occurred to her that he looked _concerned_.

He shifted, his free hand dropping uneasily to his blade's hilt. "Something's in the air," he stated. "Can't you feel it?" he asked, his gaze finally wandering over to Rena.

After a moment, Rena nodded. And there was uncertainty in her heart.

**END CHAPTER 3**

**Author's Note: **And now, all the pieces are in place. Expect something big in the next chapter.

On more specific points: Does the tension between Claude and Rena work? I think it does, for the most part, but please read and review and let me know what you think.

Also, with reference to the case of healing crests – it's supposed to be a big deal that no one on Expel but Rena has healing heraldry... even though all the spells she uses are the exact same ones that are apparently commonplace on Roak. So here's what I figure: Nede never bothered creating healing crests, since hey, due to their fancy genetics they could use heal spells without them. The rest of the galaxy, however, was not so lucky. And eventually, the Federation probably imports some Roak style crests to fill the gap.

I'm really pleased with how Iria came out in this chapter. Tough leading ladies, FTW!

I always imagined Nineh had the patience of a saint to put of with some of Bowman's excesses.

Yeah, I know, I'm making some facets of Tetragenesis society up as I go, but hey: it _sounds _plausible for a 'rigid (space) aristocracy,' right?

You know, I resisted it for a long time, but I'm honestly starting to think Dias is just plain _fun _to write, chiefly because his traumatic childhood makes him ripe for so many unique quirks as a character. Childhood tragedy for the win...?


	5. Incident

**CHAPTER 4: INCIDENT **

**January 3rd, 371 SD  
0641 EST + 6:00 (earth standard time – adjusted six hours for expel local)  
Lasguss Desert, Western Cross, Expel**

"What's the situation looking like, Lieutenant?" Ensign Barnett asked, raking the back of his hand across his grimy forehead.

"Well..." Claude began, still peering through his powered binoculars down at the shallow valley below. "We're right on track so far..."

He shifted, passing the scopes over to Barnett. "Here, take a look."

Barnett raised the binoculars to his eyes. "That's a mess of them, all right..."

Claude sighed, casting a glance up at the sun. The star Ark hung dead center in the sky, hammering down on Claude and his men unrelentingly. "Heck of a way to start a new year, eh, boys?" he called. The five other troopers deployed with him (including Ensign Barnett) nodded in agreement.

With that, Claude turned his attention back down into the valley, and the massive formation of beasts huddling together en masse in its shallow basin. It was an odd and terrifying sight. What was of even greater concern was that it was a sight repeating itself across Expel—with confounding regularity—over the past two weeks.

It was a situation so serious that Captain Mitchell and his mother pulled him off the Hoffman Ruins assignment to lead a force recon mission to investigate.

(Not that Claude was complaining. The initial recon and securing of the shafts and caverns below Hoffman had been completed within days. And once any threats to the researchers—real or simply imagined—had been 'pacified'... Well, suffice to say the mission had rapidly deteriorated into a glorified babysitting gig.

So, the alternative to sweltering his way across the Lasguss was sitting in dank labs and listening to techs wet themselves over the unknown properties and high potential of the energy stone mineral. He'd take a harsh desert and high risk to _that _any day!)

The phenomena they were tracking seemed to follow the same pattern. Beasts all across Expel were reacting strangely... as if reacting to some new factor or arrival on the planet. But the behavior that caused the EXCOM the most concern was the sudden migration of beasts from El (still the place with the highest concentration of beasts on Expel). Specifically, beasts were leaving the continent, crossing (though not always successfully) a shallow ford in that area to move between El and Cross.

It had become pretty obvious very quickly that their target (thankfully!) was neither EXCOM nor Cross Castle (both just beyond the rise of the Lasguss Mountains). But beyond that, the destination of so many beasts seemed to be a mystery... Just that they were headed south.

So cue Claude and a few hand-picked specialists getting thrown together as 'Expel Recon 1' to go out tracking beast movements. For the first few days, they had maintained position on a small plateau just east of the desert, watching carefully as beast groups passed by.

On the 2nd, Claude had made the decision to flag one of these formations and shadow them.

The beasts weren't stupid. They would rest during the heat of the day, and move during the much cooler night. Doing their stealthy best, Claude and his soldiers followed them. So far, with a bit of luck and a lot of skill, ER-1 hadn't been detected yet, though where exactly the beasts were headed for remained a mystery.

"Tell the boys to get what rest they can," Claude ordered Barnett. Claude cast another glance skyward before reaching into his rucksack for his camouflaged netting and tent. "I know it's hot, but I get the distinct feeling that we're not going to be getting much rest any time soon."

And before settling into the (relative) cool of his netting, Claude took another long lingering look at massed beasts, and worried.

**OOO**

Salva Drift was just another frontier mining town on the fringes of Cross Kingdom. Tiny and unremarkable, most residents dreamed of little more than just _escaping _the dusty city limits. In fact, the only thing that had happened of any note recently was when the son of the mayor was driven mad by a magic stone.

The Expellians had dubbed the miracle mineral with the simple moniker of the 'Energy Stone;' Federation scientists were still years of arguing away from coming up with a suitable scientific name. _Whatever_one called it, it was the very same mineral that had driven a man named Alen mad and nearly got Rena Lanford killed.

The one thing _no one _had realized, however, was that single stone had just been the tip of the proverbial iceburg. Or how close the town of Salva truly was to a major Energy Stone vein.

The mysterious beast migrations that Claude had been tracking had started the better part of a fortnight before he had been sent out into the desert. That was the same day that a miner, working deep below Salva (deeper, even, than the so-called 'dragon shaft') had made a great discovery.

But the second that miner had revealed the new energy stone mine, it was as if a bright beacon had gone off. And every beast across the planet suddenly found itself inexplicably interested in migrating south. Not every beast would make the trek—some lacked interest, others simply couldn't make it.

But enough would.

Salva had never stood a chance. It had always just been a matter of time, from the very first moment that damnable Sorcery Globe had fallen from the sky.

And Salva's time had just run out.

**OOO**

**January 5th, 371 SD  
1747 EST + 6:00 (earth standard time – adjusted six hours for expel local)  
Combat Information Center (CIC), EXCOM Command Center, Central Cross, Expel**

"What's the situation?" Iria demanded, looking harried as she brushed into the room. Her uniform jacket was half undone and hanging open—it was obvious that she had just been about to turn in for the night before the alarms had started blaring throughout the EXCOM campus.

The lead operations tech, a lieutenant named Fowler, turned from her console to report to Iria. "We've got major beast groups, moving _en masse _from all angles against Salva Drift."

Iria swore as she looked at the main screen's images—a computer generated tactical map swarming with red hostile markers and a recon feed provided by one of the _Radiant_'s aerial drones. "Where the _hell _did they all come from!?" she exclaimed. "We would have _seen _them if they had crossed the mountains!"

"Still trying to work on that, ma'am," Lieutenant Fowler answered automatically, her fingers a blur on her console's keyboard. "As near as we can tell, there has to be some sort of natural tunnel or other passage either _under_ or _through _the southern Lasguss Mountains for this number to just be popping up _in _Salva's limits."

Iria folded her arms, glowering at the main screen and chewing on her lower lip. "Has Cross responded yet?" she asked. Her expression blanched. "Hell, do they even _know_ about this yet? Will we have to notify them?"

Fowler shook her head, shoving her glasses back up on the bridge of her nose. "No ma'am, Cross is already aware of the situation—one of Salva's militia men somehow managed to make it out of Salva and to a military checkpoint. Prince Chris is reportedly going to be personally leading a relief expedition to Salva within the hour."

Of course, the open question on everyone's mind in the CIC was whether that was going to be enough. Although backed by mighty heraldic mages (the Federation still had nothing even _close_ in that department), the Cross Army was still using _swords _and other melee weapons.

"Do we have any idea _why _they're all there? Has ER-1 reported anything yet?" Iria asked.

"Nothing yet," Fowler reported, her tight hair bun bobbing as flicked through window and window on her console. "Their last check-in this morning had them still shadowing a beast group through the desert."

"Tactical appraisal?" Iria asked, glancing at one of the CIC's tactical officers.

The senior tactical officer, Commander Dyers, looked troubled. "Salva's at a major bottleneck," he began. "Beasts overrun it, and there's a good chance we lose everything south of them at the same time."

To illustrate his point, Dyers cued up a topographical map. Farmsteads, mostly, all anchored to Arlia Village in the south. _Arlia... that's Rena's hometown... _Iria thought. And unless someone did _something_, Arlia and a couple of thousand of people were simply not going to survive the night.

Iria made up her mind in an instant. "Lieutenant Fowler, open a direct channel to Admiral Ibanez at FleetCom."

"O-opening channel," Fowler said. Her nervousness was understandable—Admiral Ibanez was the current head of the Federation Space Force. Aside from the president, there was no one more senior in the Federation military. And direct channel connections to him were only for use under the most _dire _of circumstances, and then only by the commands of the Federation's top military officials.

Several seconds passed, then finally, "Admiral Ibanez here." An older man with a large white beard appeared on the CIC's main viewscreen. "Commodore Silvestoli-Kenni, what's the situation?"

"Admiral," Iria began, "We have a major incursion against a major Expel population center. I'm requesting permission to commit our forces to its aid."

It hardly took Ibanez any time at all to come to a decision. "Request denied."

"Denied?" Iria repeated, sounding dumbfounded. "Sir, I don't think you quite understand the seriousness of the situation in—"

"Commodore," Ibanez interrupted sharply, "Need I remind you that this is _not _our war?" he asked. "Our role on Expel is to assist with the effort to counter the effects of an errant OPA. _Not _to fight their battles for them."

"There are people who are in _danger _down here," Iria countered passionately. "We have to help them!"

"And the way we're going to do that is by figuring out this problem, and getting rid of. _Not _by running in at every opportunity to get _our _people killed!" Admiral Ibanez fold his arms, leaning back in his chair. His service cap shaded his eyes ominously. "I guess I should have expected this. This was a lesson your predecessor never quite managed to learn either," Ibanez finished in a frosty tone. "I'm just glad he finally took our offer and retired with what dignity he had left!"

Iria blinked, as realization suddenly dawned on her. "You forced him out," Iria said. It wasn't a question, but a statement. Tilgrem's out of the blue retirement immediately made more sense.

"I'd remember your place, if I were you," Ibanez countered, his eyes narrowing. "CentCom out." With that, he cut the connection.

It was obvious to everyone in the CIC that Iria was _seething_, but she was doing her best not to show it.

After another few moments of silent rage, Iria's gaze turned determined. "Get General Mackwell up here," she ordered Lieutenant Fowler.

Dyers raised an eyebrow at the command. "Ma'am?" he asked. That hardly seemed like the kind of order in line with Admiral Ibanez's standing directives.

"Get General Mackwell up here now," Iria repeated, in a tone that brooked little argument.

Several minutes later, General Mackwell marched sharply into the CIC, saluting Iria as he did. "Commodore?" he asked.

"General Mackwell," Iria began, her hands resting on one of the CIC's railings, "you are to organize your men, and launch immediately to relieve Salva Drift."

"Ma'am!" Mackwell answered sharply, before hustling off at the double time, keying his comm. as he went.

At Commander Dyers' arched eyebrow and cough, Iria's expression turned flinty. "We're deploying the Marines," Iria said flatly, her tone brooking no argument as she addressed them. "No questions. We _will not_ abandon those people on my watch."

Her expression turned maudlin, as she drummed her fingers on the railing. "Now, the brass may want to remove me from command for this..." A smirk. "Fine, but until then we've got some work to do. Shall we?" she asked.

That seemed to diffuse some of the tension in the room. And it allowed them to return attention to the CIC's main screens, where the fires at Salva continued to burn.

**OOO**

**January 6th, 371 SD  
Midnight  
Lanford Residence, Arlia, Kindgom of Cross, Expel**

Rena snapped awake, suddenly aware that someone was at her door. "Claude...?" she asked blearily.

"Dias," the shadow at the door corrected.

Rena forced herself up on an elbow, rubbing at her eyes with her free hand. After a few seconds more, the shadow did indeed resolve itself into Dias. "Get up," he added, "We've got a problem." And without elaborating further, Dias turned and closed the door behind him, leaving Rena to get dressed.

She dressed in a hurry—by candlelight—because once she was awake, it was easy to notice there was an odd glow in the sky to the north. At the last moment before she left her room, she grimaced, turned back to her bags, and dug out her old gauntlets. The metal snaps gleamed dully in the candlelight. With weariness few people would know, she finally slipped them on.

She was still adjusting the straps as she came down the stairs to find Dias holding a lamp. He was waiting for her, along with her mother. "Are you sure?" Westa was asking, as she glanced back to see her daughter step off the last stair.

"There's no mistaking the malice in the air," Dias elaborated helpfully.

And at this, Westa's look of concern only deepened; she gazed fearfully over at Rena.

"What's happening?" Rena asked.

"Dias says that Salva's been attacked," Westa answered quickly.

Rena glanced back over to the window. With her mind a little clearer, it was obvious the glow to the north was due to fires running wild. "It doesn't look good, at any rate..." she noted.

When she turned back to face the others, Rena found Dias suddenly thrusting the lamp towards her. "Rouse the milita," Dias said gruffly. "I'll keep a watch on the perimeter until they're ready." He moved towards the door, but paused; his expression was considering. "Do you have any way of contacting the Federals?" he asked suddenly.

"The Fed—" she started, looking confused. "The Federation? No." She pulled her communicator free, quickly pressing a few buttons. "My communicator can't get through." She smirked. "My guess is they've got bigger issues to deal with right now."

"Mmm," Dias answered. He moved to the door again.

"And what do we do when we get the rest of the milita to their posts?" Rena called out, just as he reached for the door handle.

"We're going to Salva," Dias answered matter-of-factly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

**OOO**

**0522 EST + 6:00 (earth standard time – adjusted six hours for expel local)  
Southern Lasguss, Western Cross, Expel**

The mineshaft—set into a slight depression in an otherwise sheer rock wall—had obviously been abandoned for years. Rusted out hulks that had probably been mine carts littered the area right in front of the entrance. And two parallel furrows in the tall grasses were the only real visible sign of the tracks that ran deep into the gloom.

Barnett dropped to one knee, poking at the tall sagebrush that grew across the area. "Judging by the volume of prints, I'd say we know where all the beasts are so eager to get to."

Claude folded his arms. The area was deserted, aside from his team. It actually seemed a little anticlimactic. "Rushing all this way, just to get to a mineshaft," he mused. He pulled free his quad-scanner. After a few moments, he frowned. "A mine shaft that apparently taps into a number of underground tunnels..."

He looked at the mine with new eyes. Effectively, it was the starting point for an underground highway to most of central and southern Cross. _Hell_, if he was reading what his quad-scanner was reporting correctly, there might even be some passageways to as far out as Cross Caves.

And it was _definitely _too much of a liability to leave wide open like it was. "How much C7 do we have?" Claude asked suddenly.

Ensign Barnett suddenly looked abashed. "You're not serious..." he began. When Claude didn't say anything, Barnett sighed. "Let me go check," he answered, sounding defeated.

After a quick check through everyone's equipment sacks, Barnett reported back to Claude, reading from a quad scanner. "Well, it looks like we've got enough for what you're thinking, as long as you aren't hoping for anything _too _fancy."

Claude nodded. "All right," he said, speaking as much to Barnett as the rest of the men. "Let's get started. We need to rig this mineshaft with C7 and detonate it so no more beasts can get through. The five of us will work on that. Crewman Calito, you keep an eye out on front." As he led the rest of his team into the mine, he tapped the communicator in his jacket's breast pocket. "Any thing fishy shows up, you contact me, understood?"

Crewman Calito nodded and saluted as the rest hurried into the mine shaft. "Basic dispersal pattern," Claude was saying on the way in, "Nothing too fancy. Rig all the key structural points with just enough to get the job done." Pulling free his first C7 charge, he nodded to his men. "Okay, let's get to work."

An hour later, Claude—uniform sleeves rolled up—was still arm deep in placing C7 charges. Suddenly his communicator began to beep. _This can't be good... _"Claude here," he answered.

"Lieutenant! We've got company!" Calito reported hastily over the comm. channel.

Claude looked up from the C7 charge he was working on back to the distant mine entrance. _I was hoping for more time..._ He rose from his crouch and immediately ran for the mine's entrance. Ensign Barnett looked up from the C7 he had been rigging. "Lieutenant?"

"Finish setting up the charges!" he ordered as he continued to dash for the entrance.

Just outside the mineshaft, he found red-haired, nervous looking Crewman Calito waiting anxiously for him. Calito was awkwardly holding his phase rifle half-up, as if he were caught between wanting to raise his rifle and take some warning shots on the one hand, and breaking and running for dear life on the other. _Well, _Claude thought for a moment, _he _is _brand new—he's been out of basic training for, what, three months? _"What's it looking like?" Claude asked breathlessly, pulling his powered binoculars up in one smooth motion as he came to a stop.

"They followed us," Calito said softly, as if disbelieving.

"Or we just happen to be in their way," Claude correctly lightly. Calito suddenly looked abashed; of course it was entirely possibly that they weren't being _actively _hunted by the beasts, but instead just happened to get in their way. The mine was apparently a popular destination, after all.

The thought seemed to do something for Calito's resolve, and he seemed to stand a little straighter—he even held his phase rifle a little steadier.

Claude's worried feeling from before only got worse as he scoped out the incoming hostiles. Realizing the severity of the situation he found his command in, Claude fished into his pocket for his communicator. "EXCOM, EXCOM, this is ER-1actual, come back."

But static was his only answer. Claude's eyes narrowed, and he examined his communicator's read-out. "Signal busy..." he muttered. He glanced back up along the mountain towards the north-west, towards the distant EXCOM. _What on earth could be going on back there...?_

_No, _Claude thought to himself, _No, I don't have time to worry about what's going on at EXCOM when I've got problems enough right here and right now... _

So, then, back to the _current _predicament: he took another quick look through his binoculars. It appeared as if they had lucked out in one regard—the group of incoming beasts was smaller than several of the groups they had been trailing over the past two weeks. _We could try to slug it out,_ he considered.

In his mind's eye, he could see the enfilading positions his men could take behind several of the larger broken mine carts. _Decent cover, most major approaches to the mine covered. We could make this an absolute killing field._

He frowned. _A killing field, but only until things started to turn sour. _And turn sour they would. At best estimates, the approaching beasts still outnumbered his men something like4 to 1. Even assuming their ammo boxes held out, with the mine blown they'd literally be trapped with their backs against the wall. A stand like that would probably only get them all killed.

_The only other option..._ He cast an appraising look back at the mine entrance.

Claude chewed at his lip meditatively, saying nothing as he watched the beast horde drew inevitably closer. "Sir?" Calito asked, an edge of his previous nervousness returning.

Claude took another quick look through his binoculars before apparently _finally_making up his mind. "I guess there's really not much of a choice... Calito, you're with me," he ordered, before turning and rushing into the mineshaft.

Barnett and the remainder of his command were waiting for him just inside. "Sir?" Barnett asked, "How bad is it?"

"Bad," Claude answered simply. "Did you finish planting the C7?" he asked quickly.

Barnett nodded, hefting the primed detonator as evidence. "Just barely."

Claude nodded. Then he sighed and prepared himself to outline the situation to his men. "Okay. Here's the situation," Claude began. "We've got a massive group of beasts headed this way, and we're just not going to be able to fight them off on our own. Furthermore, we can't get through to the EXCOM for back-up." And here he hesitated for a moment. "Our only option here is to fall back deeper into the mines and tunnels, and blow the shaft behind us."

And Claude was silently impressed that his men seemed to take the news with a minimum of grumbling. "I know this is risky, but given the few alternatives we have at this point..." he trailed off. When his men nodded their heads in understanding, Claude held out his hand. "Barnett, give me the detonator."

Barnett hesitated, still clenching the detonator. "Sir, as the ranking officer, you shouldn't—"

"I know the risks, Ensign." Claude smirked. "Don't make me make it an order, hm?" Still looking uncomfortable with the idea, Barnett handed Claude the detonator. "All right, get moving. I'll be right behind you."

His men racing onward down the mineshaft, Claude took a deep breath. _How on earth do I get myself into these things... _he thought wildly for a moment. He turned back towards the shaft, only to be greeted by dozens of tiny red blinking lights—C7 with detonator switches. After one last lingering look at the distant entrance (and what was likely his last look at sunlight for a while), Claude nodded to himself. Without any hesitation, he depressed the button before running deeper into the mine at full tilt.

KABOOM

The next thing Claude _felt_ was being picked up off the ground by what felt like a giant invisible fist, and being absolutely _hurled _down the corridor.

The next thing Claude _remembered _was coughing and opening his eyes to find his men standing over him looking concerned. He watched numbly as Barnett tried to ask him something, but the ringing in his ears was too strong. After a moment, he just held up his hand, pantomiming that he couldn't hear, and that he would really like some help to get up.

Supported on either side by Calito and Barnett, Claude and his men limped down the tunnel.

Once some of the ringing had died down in Claude's ears, they stopped for a rest. Ironically, no one found anything to say at that point. (Maybe it was just the seriousness of the situation. Federation training covered a lot of things, but how often was one trapped underground in potentially hostile territory?)

"N-now what?" Crewman Calito finally asked, looking worried.

Claude, reclining against a rock in a vain attempt at rest, shrugged. He stood up. "Now?" he asked. He flicked on his emergency light and clipped it to the lapel of his uniform jacket. "Now, we hope we get lucky." With that, he led his men deeper into the tunnels.

**OOO**

**January 7th, 371 SD  
Early Morning  
Outskirts of Salva Drift, Kingdom of Cross, Expel**

"Stay behind me," Dias instructed, his hand gripping his blade's hilt tightly and his eyes deadly serious as he watched the pack of crazed warthogs rush at them.

"What? You think I've gotten soft just because I've been on Earth the past few years?" Rena asked, slightly offended. (She wasn't_ just_ Dias' little sister anymore, after all.)

To Dias' great surprise (though he would never _ever _admit it), Rena suddenly streaked past him, a heraldic spell already on her lips. In one smooth movement, she cast Light Cross and slipped in between the demon warthogs. Before the first arrows of light had even finished striking, she was already lashing out with her fists and feet. Dias hesitated for a moment more, before finally drawing his blade and joining in on the fray.

When the pack had been thinned but to one last survivor, Rena favored Dias with an arch look. With surprisingly little effort, she pinned the warthog to the ground with both legs and an arm. "Hardly," she finished, dropping her knee and breaking the snarling beast's neck.

After the skirmish, Dias quietly sat down on a rocky outcropping. "You've gotten better," he noted quietly, as he cleaned off the blood from his sword.

Rena shrugged, already readjusting her gauntlets' straps and straightening her Earth-made jacket. "Chisato teaches me a few tricks every now and then. We like to spar whenever we get the chance," she explained offhandedly... only to stiffen slightly and send Dias a guilty look.

"Good," he said simply, "We'll probably need it before the day is through." And with that, they climbed back to their feet and resumed their trek down the road to Salva.

All things considered, the number of beasts on the roads was surprisingly thin. Rena supposed that was because the vast majority of the beasts were focusing their attentions on Salva itself. _Not exactly a cheery thought_, she mused.

A short few hours later, the two crested a short hillock just south of Salva. Rena cringed as they gazed upon the vista below them: the scene was terrible. Cradled between the mountains on either side, fires ran rampant across most of the village. If Rena squinted, she could just make out dark shapes darting and running through the streets—survivors or beasts, she couldn't be sure.

Wordlessly, the two edged forward, angling for the farthest edges of the town.

"The Federation never considered this area a danger zone," Rena explained as they crept along. "There's a defensive line at the north part of the town, and it was assumed the mountains would provide defense for all other directions." She shrugged. "And just a few patrols every month to thin out the beasts between Salva and Arlia seemed to keep things under control."

"Sounds like the Federals made an oversight," Dias noted dispassionately.

She felt a hint of resentment towards Dias' remark; years of living on Earth (_and _training as a Federation combat medic) had apparently made Rena a bit defensive about 'her' Federation.

They eased their way into the outskirts of the town, skirting past the burned out ruins on the periphery. Dias was about to press on further, probably to look for survivors hiding amid some of the buildings, when Rena pulled him up short. "Here, look," she said, gesturing through a burned out window towards the village square.

They had a good view of the center of town—deserted now, but for fallen bodies (Expellian and beast alike). As they watched, a pair of demon wolves burst out from the ruins of the mayor's mansion. After a moment, they both howled in unison. Then, moments later, more beasts followed them out from the nearby mine entrance, before all the beasts (including the wolves) broke off and spread out their own ways through the town.

"They must've poured out from the mines," Rena mused, after taking in the whole scene. "It would explain how they got the drop on the town..." She leaned forward, peering towards the ruins of the mansion. "I hope Alen is okay..." she added quietly.

"I'm sure he's fine," Dias reassured her in monotone.

Rena was silent for a moment, concern lingering in her eyes as she scanned the mansion once more for signs of life. She shifted. "Well, what's the plan?" she asked.

"We should try to find any pockets of survivors," Dias explained. "They'll need—"

Dias was about to say 'protection,' but raggedly broke off as he eyes alighted on a little girl in the town square. She was barefoot and her face was covered in soot, except for twin tracks where her tears were falling freely. She was panicked and whimpering. And as he watched, two beasts (looking somewhat like oversized bears) honed in on her...

His eyes widened, and for a second he seemed to reel. But all at once, his blade was free and he was streaking off.

"Dias!" Rena shouted after his flapping cloak. When he didn't respond (or even slow his pace) she cursed and dashed out behind him.

(She should have seen this coming—or at least expected something similar. Cecille's ghost never quite stopped haunting him.)

Rena was still catching up as Dias' blade sheared into the side of the first beast. Then, in one smooth motion, he slashed into the second bear, and—without pausing—scooped up the little girl in his free arm.

All this did not go unnoticed, however, as a stray wolf noted the flurry of activity with some interest. Dropping to its haunches, it dropped into a lope for Dias' exposed back...

"Behind!" Rena advised, slamming a fist into the beast's muzzle. The beast wolf went flying. Dias spun around almost immediately, taking in the whole seen with his non-expressive eyes. His mouth flicked towards a smile for one small second.

Rena winked, but her attention was soon dominated by the wolf again. Favoring its left side, the wolf was clambering back to its feet. Snarling, it let off a sharp howl.

"I think they've noticed us," Rena deadpanned.

"Mmm," Dias responded.

With their respective weapons raised, the two slowly backed away from the wolf. Rena risked a glance over her shoulder. "As if we didn't have enough problems..."

At Dias' confused look, she nodded over her shoulder. "Company's come." Behind her, a second pack of beasts—these more of the warthog types they had fought earlier—moved in on them. Even worse, another of the giant demon bears was shrugging itself free from the darkness of the mines and quickly made haste to join the scene.

"...Damn," Dias said, in a rare flash of frustration. His eyes narrowed, and he dropped into a combat stance. His armed tightened around the little girl, who just stared at him uncomprehendingly. After a moment... "I'm sorry," he told Rena quietly.

Rena shook her head. "Don't apologize. If I had seen her first, I probably would have done the same thing." The beasts came to a stop, just about a yard and a half in every direction. "Well, then," she asked, "shall we?" Dias nodded.

In concert, Rena twisted back to the warthog pack—firing off another Light Cross—while Dias swung his blade, beams of energy lashing out at the wolf.

They held their own for a while against even these beasts—more than a while, really. But eventually the tide started to turn. The demon bear managed to rake its claws across Rena's abdomen; a beast warthog gored Dias' thigh. And they were both inevitably slowing down—bleeding from a thousand minor wounds—and the beasts seemed to be endless.

It was looking grim.

But suddenly there was a burst of what sounded like phase gun fire. The beasts scattered, and Rena and Dias—leaning heavily on one another, the little girl between them—watched as several high-speed Federation assault shuttles came screaming in for a landing. Seconds later, body armor clad Federation Marines spilled out of their open hatches.

Dias let the little girl down, before dropping to a knee and leaning heavily on his sword. "Hooray for the Federals..." he said softly as he watched the Feddie Marines systematically clear out the town.

**OOO**

**January 8th, 371 SD  
0633 EST + 6:00 (earth standard time – adjusted six hours for expel local)  
Ruins of Salva Drift, Kingdom of Cross, Expel**

Iria Silvestoli-Kenni stared up at the sun, high in the midday sky, and tried to collect herself.

Her moment of reflection was shattered by the staccato burst of machine gun fire over near the mines. The Marines had set up an extra defensive line near the mines, wiping out extra beast formations as they came through.

(Although phase guns and rifles were the standard sidearms for the Federation military personnel, situations occasionally just _called _for the sheer stopping power and speed of a machine gun—not to mention the psychological edge the constant 'rat-a-tat-tat' gave the troops over man and beast alike.)

Iria had found Rena among the wreckage, earlier, tending to the wounded. (She hadn't expected to see Rena here. Iria hadn't realized she had been in Arlia when the fighting had started.) The two had embraced, but Rena could only spare a second, before going back to healing the injured.

Shaking off her memory, Iria resumed her 'inspection' of the town ruins. She lingered for a moment near the mine, watching as the Federation gunnery crews reloaded and kept watch for more incoming.

There had already been talk of blowing the mine, but Iria hadn't been able to bring herself to give the order yet. Despite the best efforts of a survey crew, they weren't entirely sure how many separate tunnels there were down there. That was something that needed to be investigated, lest some stray beasts down there ended up wandered out of some other unmapped exit into the middle of _another _city.

City... It was hard to believe that just a few nights ago there had been a _living_cityhere. At least a third of the town was dead, with dozens more still as yet unaccounted for. The bottom line was, it was good news the Marine detachments had arrived when they did, or those casualty counts would have been far higher.

Then again, Iria thought, deploying troops had its own draw backs. For example, she was already ignoring several memos and v-mails from Admiral Ibanez's office.

The one piece of _good _mail she had received was from former Admiral Tilgrem; he had simply congratulated her on a job well done. Somehow, that seemed _far_more important to her than the endless recriminations that would no doubt rain down on her from CentCom. It even almost made her career-ending decision _worth _it.

She picked at a charred fallen log with the toe of her boot. She supposed she should start making decisions about who was going to take her place when she was undoubtedly sacked. General Mackwell, perhaps? He was a good soldier, and seemed genuinely concerned about the plight of the Expellains—he wouldn't roll over either to protestors, corporate interests, _or _less than enthusiastic Feddie brass.

...Though, she wondered if the _Space Force _brass would accepta _Marine_ general in charge of the overall mission, or if that would spark a new go-round of inter-service bickering.

(This _was_ primarily a Space Force mission, after all. And if there was one thing Federation military services guarded more jealousy than national security secrets, it was mission jurisdiction.)

This time, it was a barking dog that broke her reverie.

She absently watched as Federation medics—some with red cross armbands, others with stars or crescents or circles or triple triangles—buzzed about, all sharing the same grim expression.

After a second, she tried to shake her head clear. With all the destruction and death around her, was right now _really _the time for trying to pick a successor she could trust?

She answered her own question quickly enough. In one smooth motion, she pulled her uniform jacket off and shoved up her shirt sleeves. She marched over to the nearest cluster of medics. "Where can I chip in?" she asked.

Hours passed. She lost track of time in between passing out water to the wounded and helping to move patients from triage to care tents.

In fact, she would have continued doing that all night. But at dusk, she had suddenly become aware of the machine guns abruptly breaking off mid-burst, accompanied by sounds of yelling. She tried to wipe some of the blood from her hands (frowned as she noticed the rag she tried to wipe up with was already soaked through) and stood.

"What's going on?" she asked, as she hurried towards the mine.

One of the medics saluted, before turning his gaze back to the crowd near the mine entrance. "They found... _survivors_, or something coming out of the mines."

"Survivors?" Iria asked, frowning... only to watch as Claude—his uniform filthy and bloody—led the remnants of ER-1 out through that very mine.

"Claude!"

**OOO**

**January 11th, 371 SD  
0840 EST + 6:00 (earth standard time – adjusted six hours for expel local)  
Infirmary, EXCOM Command Center, Central Cross, Expel**

The steady 'blip, blip, blip' of a highly advanced medical diagnostic machine was the first sound that Claude became aware of. The next was the soft, shallow, and steady breathing of Rena, dozing in a battered looking plastic chair next to his bedside. He attempted to sit up, but the sudden ache that shot through most of his body dissuaded him from any further attempts.

Fortunately, his stirring had been enough to wake Rena from her light nap.

Claude offered a weak, pained wave. "Hey..."

His casual greeting caused Rena to laugh quietly, even as her eyes threatened to well with tears. "Ha..." she began, sniffling loudly. "W-we were afraid that you were going to miss your birthday," Rena chided, before the tears finally started to spill out of her eyes.

"Would you have saved me... any cake...?" Claude rasped.

But Rena was too busy sobbing to hear him.

She composed herself after a few minutes. "Sorry," she choked out, wiping the last tears from her eyes.

After a few more moments, she shook her head. "Entering a mine system deep within enemy territory, and blowing the mine entrance behind you... God, Claude," she breathed mildly, "that's the exact sort of stupidly brave move the military loves." She folded her arms, the hollowed out ghost of anger flashing briefly across her expression. "There's talk of giving you the Luna Cross, you know," she chided.

"Just what I need," Claude deadpanned, "because a medal is going to stop making my body ache this badly." The comment was meant to be light and in jest, but... But there was a certain apprehension in Claude's eyes.

Rena, of course, recognized it immediately. He wore that expression whenever there was a question on his mind that he didn't want to ask because he dreaded the answer. Rena closed her eyes, sitting still and primly. "The survivors are fine," she began, answering the question that was burning up his mind. Her expression turned distant. "And they've recovered Marks' and Abernathy's bodies..."

At this Claude let loose a long and weary sigh. When Rena opened her eyes, Claude was staring up at the ceiling, his fists resting against his forehead. "I should have gotten them out of there..." he said after a moment.

(These _were_ the first men to die under Claude's command. The guilt was unlikely to ever leave him.)

"Claude..." But here Rena's words failed her. The stricken look on Claude's face remained unmoved. After a moment, she took one of his hands in her own, silently massaging the back of his hand. At that moment, that was about all she _could _do to try and ease his suffering.

Hopefully it would be enough.

**OOO**

**January 12th, 371 SD  
0534 EST (earth standard time)  
FNN Newsroom, New York, North American Administrative District, Earth**

"More backlash on the Salva Incident on Expel," Chisato said tiredly, flipping through the latest wire reports. "Senator Novacello's sex scandal shows no signs of letting up any time soon..." _Caught with a _rockfolk_ ambassador in a compromising situation... _She shook her head. _I wouldn't have believed it unless I read it myself. Couldn't have happened to a nicer jerk... _

Chisato shook the thought off. "And _another _border clash with Lesonia," she finished reading, letting the wire reports fall back together. "Not a bit of good news in the house this morning, eh?" she asked her staff.

"This has been a pretty rough holiday season," news director Daryl deadpanned.

Chisato scrubbed a hand back through her hair, squeezing her eyes shut. "Okay, okay," she began, "We lead with the Lesonia clashes, and then segue into the newest situation on Expel, and then we end on Senator Novacello."

"_Ending _on the Novacello sex scandal?" Daryl asked in surprise. It was, after all, the sort of salacious lead that news networks _salivated _over when you got right down to it.

"Try to remember," Chisato said with a wink, "_Federation Morning _is a serious news show.

"Besides, there's that old adage of always trying to end a broadcast on an up note," Chisato explained cheerily. "And with what we've got to work with, the leading human xenophobe in the Federation Senate being discovered _in bed_ with an alien foreign national is about the lightest thing we're going to get any time soon."

Daryl broke into a toothy grin. "You got it, Chisato."

"Any other questions?" she asked her group. When everyone shook their heads 'no,' she nodded. "Okay, then let's get to it."

As her staffers dispersed, Chisato tiredly rubbed her sore neck. Despite the positive front she was trying to present, so far the recent holiday season really _hadn't _been a time of joy and celebration in the Federation.

She lightly skipped down from the desk she had been sitting on for the meeting, and wandered vaguely in the direct of the coffee machine.

Consumed by her thoughts as she walked back to her office with her coffee, she didn't even notice Daryl sidle up next to her. "Chisato?" he asked quietly.

"Hmm? What's up Daryl?" she asked, taking a sip of her coffee.

"I didn't want to say anything in front of the other staffers, but..." And here Daryl seemed to shift uneasily. "This Salva thing... It's big. I mean, like, it's _really _big, right? Those protestors... They aren't going to stop this time, are they?'

Chisato's expression turned serious. She nodded.

Daryl nodded back, his suspicions confirmed. "What do you think Salva is going to end up meaning?" he asked. "I mean, for all of it. For the Expel mission?"

Chisato thought back, remembering the dusty little mining town. She blew out a puff of air, shaking her head. "I don't know," she answered honestly. "Nothing good," she added after a moment.

But that didn't even really scratch the surface of what she feared would be coming. Or the sudden suspicion she wouldn't be content merely covering _this _brewing story from the sidelines; Expel was, after all, one of the closest things she had left to a real home now.

It looked like it might be time to take _Federation Morning_ on the road...

**END CHAPTER 4**

**Author's Notes: **I guess this chapter is a bit of a departure from the rest. Normally I try to bring in a wide variety of viewpoint characters in each chapter, but the constraints of this particular incident required that I focus on those characters who'd be in the area.

With the next chapter, we'll get back to a more familiar format, as everybody tries to figure out what the hell just happened, and what that's going to mean.


	6. Withdrawal

**CHAPTER FIVE: WITHDRAWAL**

**January 31st, 371 SD  
0840 EST + 6:00 (earth standard time – adjusted six hours for expel local)  
Main Conference Room, EXCOM Command Center, Central Cross, Expel**

The gathered officers all watched Iria apprehensively as she took up the podium. They remained silent as they waited for her to begin, but several coughed uncomfortably and shifted uneasily; it was obvious they wanted to pepper her with all sorts of questions. Only their military discipline kept them silent.

She held up a dull brown folder. "I have here," Iria began, her tone flat, "a wire report straight from a press conference that was held about an hour ago on Earth..."

She set the folder down, mentally fortifying herself as she flipped the folder open. She already knew what the files inside said, but it was still...

She cleared her throat. "Admiral Ibanez has apprised President Negroponte of the situation in Salva," Iria began to read—ominous sounding, but no problems so far, "As well as our involvement to secure the town and its survivors. And as a result, while he commends our fighting forces on a job performed above and beyond the normal call of duty..."

At this point Iria closed the folder, no longer able to read the words. "In other words, it is now the President's _opinion_," and here it was hard not to miss the edge of anger in Iria's ad-libbed words, "that Federation forces on Expel have crossed a line, and co-opted the conflict from the Expellians, and that continued Federation deployment will sacrifice Federation troops and resources with little to show for it."

The room had fallen completely silent, and nearly to a person the gathered officers stared at Iria in slack-jawed shock. But the worst was still yet to come.

Visibly bracing herself, Iria flipped open the folder again, her eyes scanning down to the last section of the President's speech. "Therefore," Iria resumed reading, "as of 0900, February 1st, Operation Enduring Expel is officially over, and all Federation forces are to withdraw from Expel within one month."

The silence lingered on for one last moment before the room erupted in frenzied debate.

**OOO**

**January 31st, 371 SD  
1331 EST + 6:00 (earth standard time – adjusted six hours for expel local)  
Office of Commodore Silvestoli-Kenni, EXCOM Command Center, Central Cross, Expel**

Iria's office door buzzed. She hazily looked up from the bottle of scotch she was slowly burning her way through. "Enter," she called out, slurring only slightly.

The door slid open to reveal Rena, standing mournfully just outside, hands hanging and clasped in front of her.

A weak smile flickered across Iria's face. "Rena," she began, before waving her in, "come in, come in."

Rena strode in, still looking grim. As she slid into the seat across from Iria's desk, her eyes flickered over to the scotch for only the briefest of moments. "Is it true?" she asked without preamble.

There was a pause. "Care for a drink?" Iria finally asked, in lieu of an answer. She held her glass up and jiggled it for emphasis. Rena silently shook her head no. "Good," Iria pronounced. "It's a filthy habit..." she explained, even as she took another shot.

Rena stared at her expectantly. Iria shook her head, refusing to meet Rena's gaze. "He stares at me like that too, you know. As if his stare can make this all go away... As if _I _was the one who ordered the withdrawal."

"So it _is_ true then..." Rena said softly, her gaze dropping to the office's floor.

"Elections are coming up, you know," Iria noted dispassionately as she leaned back. "A unilateral withdrawal _now _might just make the voters forget about this whole debacle by the time November rolls around."

Rena looked aghast at Iria's pronouncement. "That's..." she began, trailing off as words just seemed to fail her.

"That's _politics_," Iria supplied pointedly. A frustrated sigh then escaped Iria's lips, as she looked thoughtful. "This isn't even the first time the Federation has tried to leave someone out to hang..." Iria continued, sounding irritable.

And then for a moment, Iria stared down at her hands, remembering those days fighting across Roak in the distant past... Days when her gauntlets had been a constant presence on her fists, and an absolute certainty that she was doing the right thing was in her heart. Ronixis would often say that—

She flinched—those days were long gone. Commodores simply couldn't go sneaking off to fight; this commodore in particular, not anymore, not when so many people were depending on her.

After a moment, Iria tried to force herself back to the present. "Have you seen Claude recently?" she asked. "He doesn't seem to be taking my calls at the moment, and the infirmary has no idea where he's gotten to."

This managed to elicit a small smirk from Rena. "He... may have checked himself out a few days early," she admitted. "And he reported back to the _Radiant _this morning."

"He's not mad at you," Rena added thoughtfully after a moment. "He's just... _frustrated_. With this whole situation."

Iria had surmised as much, but that still did little to change anything. She was still the commander of the Expel mission, after all, and that meant the buck had to stop with her.

After a moment, Iria's eyes flashed back up to Rena. "And you?" Iria asked. "What are your plans? Will you be coming back with us to Earth?" she pressed. As a medical volunteer attached to the _Radiant_, she wasn't under the same obligations as the rest of them were.

Rena didn't reply for a moment, her hands laced in her lap. "I don't think I can go this time," she finally stated quietly. After a moment, her expression shifted to one of conviction. "If the Federation is really leaving," she continued, "this time _I _have to stay to help."

Iria nodded proudly at Rena making the difficult choice. "Leon gave me the same speech yesterday," Iria said, a rueful smile on her face. "The hab. on Moonbase is going to be so empty again..." she added thoughtfully.

A sudden fear suddenly struck Iria. "Does Claude know yet?" she asked, because a mother's job is _never_ really done.

And now it was Rena's turn to look frustrated. "No."

**OOO**

**February 12th, 371 SD  
Late afternoon  
Café _Crest Princess_, Cross Castle Town, Kingdom of Cross, Expel**

"Leon!" Opera called out, waving a hand, "Over here!"

Leon's ears twitched and he turned to see Opera sitting at an outdoor café. This was very much a relief to him, as he had spent the better part of the previous hour wandering around Cross' central plaza looking confused and wondering where Opera was. He hurried over.

Leon drew up short, however, stopping just a few feet from the table. "Who are they?" he asked, casting a distrustful eye to the three men shadowing their table. All three wore oddly cut military uniforms and seemed ill-at-ease being unarmed.

"Who, them? Just ignore them," Opera said confidently. "They're my _escort_," she explained, looking put out. "They insisted on coming along, so I didn't have much of a choice." She turned back to them. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather sit down?" she asked them plaintively.

The three junior guards didn't respond, instead exchanging glances and looking increasingly uncomfortable.

"Are they going to be okay?" Leon asked after watching the exchange.

Opera waved off his concern, as she turned back around. "They'll be fine. Heaven _forbid_," she continued sarcastically, "that they look like they're lying down on the job to protect a Vectra." She turned her attention back to Leon, still standing awkwardly off to one side of the table. "Sit," she encouraged.

Leon edged down into the seat, taking the opportunity to scan Opera over. She was wearing a bright red dress, over which she had haphazardly thrown her old tattered Feddie jacket—the same jacket she swore up and down was worn by a Vectra in the EFSF during the First Lesonia War. She seemed relaxed, a bright smile on her face. She wasn't even bothering to hide her third eye, completely unworried that anyone (except her bumbling bodyguards) would recognize her.

All in all, it was a refreshing change from the stressed and harassed look she affected the last time he had seen her.

(Then again, he doubted very much he had looked any better back on the Bluesphere himself.)

"The _Crest Princess_?" Opera asked, nodding towards the sign hanging above the café's entrance. "Is that named after who I think it is?"

Leon nodded dutifully, after placing his order with the waitress. "Yup. According to the locals, it opened right after Celine married into the family." He scratched his cheek. "This place is supposed to have become a sort of institution around here, although they say that Her Royal Highness has never stopped by."

Opera's mouth quirked into a wry smile. "She's probably just endlessly disappointed that it wasn't a _bar _they named after her," Opera noted.

Leon adopted a shy smile. "Actually, they've got one of those, too." He paused for effect, looking thoughtful. "Well, not quite. It's actually a bordello named the _Princess Wen—_"

"_Leon_!" Opera chastised playfully, a broad grin on her face. "How _scandalous_ for you to know that!" She ruffled his hair, while Leon tried weakly to fend her off. "Ah, my little Leon, you're growing up into a man right before my eyes."

Leon frowned as he tried to tease his hair back into a semblance of order – did all the older women in his life feel the urge to ruffle his hair? "Little?" he protested.

Opera broke into a huge smile. "There's the bravado I missed!" She stirred her drink with her straw, her expression turning reflective. "I was going to look you up on Moonbase, but by the time I got settled and ready, they said you had already moved back _here_."

Leon scratched the back of his head. "Yeah," he started distractedly, as the waitress brought over a soda to him, "Aunt Iria and I didn't really get much in the way of warning before her promotion." He looked forlorn. "We didn't really get much warning before she had to leave here either."

Opera favored him with an encouraging smile. "Well, hey, look at it this way," she ventured, "if it weren't for the withdrawal, I'd probably still be stuck up in orbit, and you'd be stuck having lunch alone." Her impulsive decision to visit her other old comrades on Expel had seriously underestimated the attention the Federation had been lavishing on the little green planet. Well, until recently, obviously.

"Yeah, I guess so," Leon answered, though he still looked less than convinced. But then he brightened. "Well, maybe not alone. Big Sister Rena is still on Expel, and Big Brother Claude hasn't left yet."

Opera froze. "...Claude's here?" she asked, a little too suddenly.

Leon nodded dutifully, oblivious to any ulterior motives on Opera's behalf. "Well, not for very much longer, through. He's leaving with the Federation."

And while Leon slurped away at his soda, there was a war of emotions across Opera's face. Eventually, relief won, though it was a very narrow thing. She took a deep breath. "Well, enough about that. Tell me, Leon... Is there any _special_ girl in your life?"

"Opera!" Leon protested, blushing slightly even as he was smiling.

**OOO**

**February 22nd, 371 SD  
Midmorning  
Linga University, Linga, Kingdom of Lacour, Expel**

Precis Neuyman was _not happy_ as she stormed out of what had—until only recently—been the main meeting room for joint Federation-Expel Linga Research Board. Yeah—that was over. Whereas once the conference room hummed with computers and eager researchers, now all that was left was several odd boxes, empty tables, and a skeleton crew of Federation researchers packing the last few papers left behind.

(The Expellian researchers on staff had already been 'dismissed' back to their original LU departments.)

Several steps out the door, Precis came to a stop, spinning on a heel to face the people who—again, until only recently—had been her colleagues. "And thanks for nothing!" she shouted back, looking intensely frustrated as she awkwardly clutched her sheaf of papers to her chest.

Her challenging gaze flew from researcher to researcher—none of which dared meet her gaze—until she locked eyes with the director of what had been her science team. The Earth-born man just shrugged helplessly. At this response, Precis groaned angrily. "Come on Bobot!" she called out. At her side, Bobot—clutching an identical pile of papers to _his _chest—nodded furiously. "Let's get out of here!" she declared heatedly.

The two stormed down Linga's surprisingly dusty and surprisingly empty streets, before marching into the Neuyman family workshop's wide open doors. Precis marched over to the first open workbench and unceremoniously dropped the messy pile of papers with little regard to how they landed. Bobot mirrored her actions, before folding his arms and sulking on the far side of the desk.

"The _nerve _of those guys!" she snarled fiercely, bracing herself against the work bench.

"Precis, is that you?" Graft called from the adjoining room.

"Yeah, I'm in here," she called back.

Graft poked his head in, his smile crumbling into a grimace when he saw the expression on Precis' face. "I take it that the trip didn't go too well?" he asked.

Precis had set out that morning for LU fiercely determined to either convince some of the research staff to remain behind and work with her, or at least for the Federation to donate some of their higher end pieces of equipment to her oh-so-noble cause. All she had gotten were some of her own notes—those the Federation brass hadn't redacted as 'too sensitive' or 'national security risks,' anyway—and the equivalent of a pat on the head.

Suffice it to say, she was less than pleased.

"I just can't believe they're all just going to up and _leave _like this! We're barely any closer to understanding the situation than when we started!" she complained loudly.

"You can't blame them too much," Graft countered, walking into the workshop, one of his innumerable notebooks under his arm. "If the Federation leaves without them, they have no way home. They'd be stuck here, on a planet that isn't theirs, trying to solve a problem that doesn't really concern them."

He looked confused for a second. "Or, at least, it wasn't theirs until they got stranded on the planet in the first place, because they didn't leave with the Federation..." He scratched confusedly at her chin. "Er, you know what I mean," he finished.

"I guess," Precis conceded sulkily, folding her arms and leaning against the workbench.

Graft, meanwhile, had sat down in his favorite work chair, humming out a jaunty tune.

"You're in an oddly good mood," Precis noted suddenly, an eyebrow arching. "_Especially _given the situation." Only that morning—before Precis' less than satisfying trip to LU—Graft had been moping around the house. His work with Kurtz Absorption had hit another snag, even _with_ all of Precis' help.

"Well, I did some more work this morning," Graft began meekly. He stood up, grabbing up a sheaf of papers from the work desk and walking over to Precis. He held them out to her, almost bashful.

Precis frowned at her father's strange behavior, and took the notes with a slight hint of trepidation. That trepidation faded away in seconds, however, quickly replaced by a look of awe washing across her features as she realized just what she was looking at. "This is... this is _brilliant, _Dad," Precis declared, she scanned over the notes scrawled in Graft's spidery script over and over again. "This... this is a practical application of the Kurtz effect." The problem that had been so plaguing their work was solved in an elegant and simple fashion, right there on the page. It was almost unreal.

Graft nodded. "I couldn't have done it without you," he said, as he hugged her.

"No, no, Dad, I just helped out a bit with the number crunching and basic logistics—_you _were the one who put it all together."

When the two broke apart, Precis immediately dove for a spare notepad, hastily scribbling down a crude shopping list. "I'll have to get a jump on this..." Precis began, her words speeding up faster and faster, "We're going to need, need a wagon, and a housing assembly. And I'm going to have to try and scrounge up a coolant regulator, that's going to be hard to find with the Federation leaving, but they're leaving a _mess _of junk behind, so maybe I can scrounge something up out of—"

Precis suddenly clamped her mouth shut, looking back to her father. "Dad... Dad this could _do it_. I mean, really _do it_."

And Graft just seemed relaxed, nodding once. "I know," he said simply, settling back down into the closest chair at hand. He looked to be at peace for the first time in months and months—that infernal idea that had been rattling around in his head for so long was finally _out _and it just might be Expel's salvation.

Precis turned back to her hasty list. "I've got to get started. The blacksmithy closes early today, and we're going to have a _lot _of orders to put in." She raced for the door, Bobot just barely clinging to her shoulder. "I'll be back before sunset!" she called over her shoulder.

She was out the door before Graft could even think to say something in response. Her head whirling with ideas and thoughts and plans and diagrams, she rushed out into the street and around the corner before—

—slamming headfirst into Ashton.

She landed flat on her rear, staring up at three pairs of very surprised eyes. "Precis?" Ashton asked, even as his dragons grunted in confusion.

With a gentle push from Bobot on the small of her back (which was more a show of moral support than practical aid) Precis clambered back to her feet. "A-Ashton..." Precis began, her previous rapid-fire thoughts slamming into a figurative brick wall.

Ashton shyly broke eye contact almost immediately. Hunching his shoulders, he nodded as he walked away. "Sorry," he apologized softly. "I didn't see you." Hands dug fiercely into his robe's pockets, he made as if to shuffle off down the lane.

And maybe it was just the rush of adrenaline—_of hope_—but more likely it was just that the weight was off her shoulders, that she _finally _didn't feel like she was letting _everybody _on Expel down by not being able to find the Answer to the Problem, even with all her Science... She called out. "Ashton! Wait!"

Ashton paused before slowly turning back, still looking as if he was waiting for the hammer blow to fall. Precis suddenly became self-conscious, digging the toe of her boot into dirt. "Listen, Ashton... If you're going to be around Linga a while longer, I wouldn't mind if... if we could talk at some point." She scratched at her nose. "I mean, really... _talk_. Uh... alone. About, uh, _us_. Uh, if you want. I mean, I'd like to do that, um, if you'd like to, and..." She stopped, feeling awkward.

When she finally dared to meet his eyes, she saw how tired he looked. _They say he's been fighting along with the militia nonstop since even _before _the Federation left. _(Suffice it to say, his skills had been in even higher demand since Federation security forces had unceremoniously turned over all security matters _to _that militia.)

At any rate, Ashton simply nodded. "I'd like that." It was the first time something like a smile had passed over his expression in _months_.

**OOO**

**February 28th, 371 SD  
1101 EST (earth standard time)  
Captain's Ready Room, EFS _Radiant_, Expel orbit**

Captain Michelle Mitchell was a cheery looking woman in her mid-thirties, an unruly mane of red hair pulled back into a thick ponytail and tucked securely under her service cap. Captain Mitchell was one of the youngest officers to be promoted to captain—she had been on a fast track from the second she had graduated at the top of her academy class. She _also_ happened to be one of Iria's closest friends in the military.

But it was not a social call that had drawn Iria to the _Radiant _today—otherwise there would have been far more alcohol involved. Mitchell, a twinkle in her eyes, glanced over from behind her desk to Iria. "Are you ready to get started, Commodore?"

Iria affected a wan smile, nodding her ascent. "Better get it over with, I suppose," she replied, as she rubbed a thumb over the edge of a vanished and gilt-covered box she held in her hands.

Mitchell smirked, mashing down a stud on her desk. "You heard the Commodore," she called over the comm., "Send them in."

The door to Captain Mitchell's ready room swished open; the survivors from ER-1 marched in silently, forming a line before Captain Mitchell and Iria, and finished by offering a crisp salute in unison.

At the head of the line—opposite from where Iria sat at the desk—was Claude. He still wore several of the bandages from his brief residency in EXCOM infirmary, including one very prominent across his left cheekbone. She dismissed the distant look on Claude's face as emotional fallout; Iria had heard Claude had beamed down to the surface earlier that morning, and there was little doubt that he and Rena had finally had that talk.

And there was something else, too, something that was nagging at Iria, but she couldn't quite place it...

"Gentlemen," Mitchell began, rising from her desk, "At ease." She edged out from behind the desk, leaning against its edge. "Commodore Sivestoli-Kenni and I are here today to honor your exemplary performance during the attack on Salva."

Iria then handed the wooden box over to. "Now, CentCom may not agree," Captain Mitchell continued, tapping the wooden box's top, "But out here, the Commodore and I feel—_know_—that what you did down there saved a lot of lives, and did your uniform, and your oaths to the Earth Federation, _proud_." She lifted the top of the box, revealing a Luna Cross and several Silver Shooting Stars. Iria noted that several of the assembled officers, including Claude, were doing their very best not to goggle at all the hardware suddenly on display.

With a weighty sense of ceremony, Captain Mitchell slowly pinned each of the surviving ER-1 members with 'Stars, before finally drawing up to Claude. The Luna Cross had a stylized representation of Earth's moon (not Moonbase), with a gold cross inlaid over the top. It was definitely one of the higher military awards in the service.

"Congratulations, gentlemen," Captain Mitchell declared once she was finished, crisply saluting the men. As they returned her salute, she nodded. "Dismissed."

They started to file out, but before Claude could join them, Captain Mitchell cleared her throat. "Not you, Lieutenant Kenni. If you could stay...?" Claude obediently came to a stop, though, judging by the expression on his face, he couldn't fight a sudden sinking feeling.

"Lieutenant Kenni," Captain Mitchell began, her gaze resting on the floor, "you're currently assigned to the _Radiant _in an advisory capacity... But I'd like to have you on my crew in an official role. The next time we're into dry-dock, my XO is being transferred Earthside, and I was wondering..." she paused, her gaze suddenly flicking up to meet Claude's, "if _you _might be interested in the job...?"

"As... As your XO?" Claude asked, stunned. Whatever he had expected the discussion to be about, this was clearly not something he had even_ considered_. "I'd... I'd be flattered, but—"

"Excellent," Iria declared immediately, apparently choosing to ignore whatever else it was Claude was about to say. "As the commanding officer of _both _of you, I can assure you that the transfer will be approved," she added, beaming.

Captain Mitchell nodded, as she crossed back behind her desk and sat down. "I guess rank has its privileges after all," she added, smiling. Mitchell turned her attention back to Claude. "Well, with that formality out of the way, when we get back to Earth—"

Claude, however, Claude interrupted her. "_But_, Captain, Commodore... I respectfully request permission to remain on Expel," Claude declared bluntly.

Their immediate response—blank expressions—was clearly not what he had been hoping for. Captain Mitchell regained her senses first, an eyebrow arching. "Excuse me?" she asked, just... _surprised_.

"I'd like permission to remain on—"

Captain Mitchell held up a hand. "I heard you the first time," she interrupted sharply. She shook her head. "What I mean to say is that I'm just a bit shockedthat you would actually _ask _that," she stated, looking aghast. "Request denied," she said flatly, with a speed that made it clear that any alternative was a nonstarter.

It was obvious that Claude wasn't making any traction with Captain Mitchell, so he attempted to switch tracks. "Commodore, please!" Claude pleaded.

Iria bowed her head, not saying anything. The low brim of her service cap obscured the expression on her face.

After a moment, when it became clear Iria _wasn't _going to say anything, Captain Mitchell stepped back in. "Her hands are tied as much as _ours _are," she began, half-standing. Her level gaze seemed to bore holes into Claude. "You have your orders, _Lieutenant_," Captain Mitchell warned ominously.

Claude's hands clenched into fists. "I know, ma'am, but—"

**OOO**

**_June 15__th__, 346 SD__  
1341 EST (earth standard time)  
EFS _Calnus_, EFSF Maintenance Bay 17, Moonbase, Earthsphere_**

"_....abandoning these people is wrong," Ronixis declared, templing his fingers as he leaned back in the Calnus' command chair._

_Iria frowned, and glanced over at Ronixis. When he didn't continue, she set her tablet down and turned to face him, leaning against the forward console. "Even so," she began, trying to keep her tone light, "Admiral Beize has made his orders pretty clear."_

"_I know," Ronixis answered, sounding frustrated. "Even so..." he trailed off. _

_Iria folded her arms. "So what are you saying?" she asked neutrally._

_He met her gaze. "That I'm going to help these people no matter what... contrary to orders or not." He folded his arms, breaking eye contact. "Iria, you should leave now," Ronixis added quietly. "If I'm lucky, I'll _only_ get 30 years hard labor." He shifted uneasily. "I don't want to drag you down with me," he added, almost hesitantly. _

_She shook her head. "That's not happening," she replied quickly. "You're not doing this alone, that's for sure." She then gestured to the Calnus' empty bridge around them. "And with the rest of the crew on liberty, who else is there but me?"_

_Ronixis offered her a thin-lipped smile. "Thank you, Iria."_

"_So, then," Iria asked, "What are you thinking? Kidnap a few Federation scientists and strand them on Roak for a few years? Without the original host, it might take that long to come up with an effective cure..."_

_Ronixis looked deep in thought. "About that... I think I may have a—"_

_He was interrupted when a display on the console next to Iria began to beep. She frowned, keying and reading the report. She nodded to herself. "Ratix and Milly have just been released from debriefing at Central..." She pushed off from the console. "Surely we can take a little time off from plotting treason to take them out to lunch, right?" she asked. _

_Ronixis nodded silently, standing and heading for the bridge's rear hatch. Iria fell in step behind him, but the two hadn't taken three steps before Ronixis stopped again. "Iria... are you sure about this?" he asked, without turning around. _

"_Of course. I'm your first officer, right? Where you lead, I follow." She shrugged extravagantly. "Besides, it just so happens that I'm as unhappy about our orders as you are." _

**OOO**

**February 28th, 371 SD  
1134 EST (earth standard time)  
Captain's Ready Room, EFS _Radiant_, Expel orbit**

Iria looked up sharply at Claude, blinking away the vivid memory. Her look of consternation vanished, for in that moment she suddenly understood what it was that had been nagging at her during the entire ceremony: in his bearing and stance, Claude was suddenly the spitting image of Ronixis.

Iria began to speak, then, her mouth suddenly working of its own accord. "Lieutenant, while you are an officer in the Earth Federation Space Forces, you are expected, and more importantly, _honor-bound_ to follow orders and execute your duty," Iria lectured, her voice sounding coolly detached.

She suddenly locked eyes with Claude. "If, however, you were no longer an officer, then the EFSF would have little say in where you went or what you did there."

Claude—stunned—stared at Iria uncomprehendingly for several long moments. At her patient (encouraging?) nod, a look of determination stole onto his face. In a slow and deliberate manner, Claude unpinned the Luna Cross from his lapel, and gently set it on the Captain's table. "Then I respectfully resign," he said with no preamble, before nodding once to Captain Mitchell and then to Iria, and turning and exiting the ready room.

The ready room fell silent. After a moment, Captain Mitchell sat back down. "Well, that—"

Mitchell was interrupted by the beeping of the ready room's door. She frowned. "Enter," Mitchell called. To her surprise, she watched as Ensign Barnett and the other survivors of ER-1 all marched into the room. "Can I help you, gentlemen?" she asked.

The men all exchanged looks, before Ensign Barnett uneasily stepped forward. Looking nervous, he cleared his throat. "Uh... Captain... uh... I believe we're here to resign."

Captain Mitchell and Iria exchanged looks as the ER-1 survivors all solemnly turned in their medals before shuffling back out of the ready room.

This time, before either Mitchell or Iria could speak, the ready room's comm. suddenly started to beep. "Mitchell here," the captain answered, keying the comm. inlaid in her desk.

"Captain, I'm being flooded with hails from local transports," Mitchell's XO reported dutifully. "We've got mass resignations all across the task group."

Mitchell's eyes narrowed. The news was apparently spreading faster than she had thought it would. "How many people are we talking about?" she asked.

Mitchell's XO didn't respond for a moment. Finally, "About half," he answered finally.

And Mitchell's only response was to laugh silently to herself, and shake her head. She could almost hear her XO shifting uncomfortably on the other side of the line. "Captain?" her XO finally asked. "What should we do? They're all requesting permission to use our transporters to beam back down to Expel."

"Well, they're no longer enlisted in the EFSF, are they? And we simply c_an't_ have non-authorized personnel onboard, now can we?" Captain Mitchell asked, her tone light. If there was a more perfect example of following the_ letter_ of the law, but not the _spirit_, she didn't know it.

"Uh.... uh, yes, ma'am," her XO responded, before killing the connection.

Mitchell leaned back in her chair. "Well, Commodore," she began. "It looks as if our departure might be a little delayed."

"Not to mention that my command has just been cut in half," Iria added dryly.

After another moment, a bemused expression stole onto Captain Mitchell's face, and she pulled off her service cap. "I didn't think he'd go through with it," Captain Mitchell admitted.

"I don't think _he _knew either," Iria confided.

"And that so many followed suit in so little time..." Mitchell smiled. "You must be proud."

Iria closed her eyes, that image of Claude overlaid with Ronixis lingering in her mind. "You have no idea."

**OOO**

**March 1st, 371 SD  
1116 EST + 6:00 (earth standard time – adjusted six hours for expel local)  
Eastern Cross, Kingdom of Cross, Expel**

The truck—a crude, heraldic powered beast thrown together by native Expellians based on the concepts introduced by Earth-imported trucks—banged along over a dusty dirt road. It pulled to a stop as the road split off in two directions. The passenger side door of the truck opened, and Chisato Madison spilled out, only turning back to pull out her luggage after her.

Hefting her heavy camera bag over her shoulder, Chisato waved a hand at the driver. "Thanks!" she called, before marching off along the right-hand path. After a moment, the truck fired up again with a shuddering roar before driving down along the left path.

As she walked, Chisato—using personal tablet that had clearly seen better days—reviewed and did her best to edit several of the recent reports she had filmed using her handcam. She nearly tripped twice in the process of doing so, but she felt the risk was worth getting the work done as quickly as possible.

Even so, she still couldn't stop a sigh from escaping her lips. "Daryl, I sincerely wish you were here," she muttered to herself.

She was _supposed_ to have a film crew—yes, including her news director-cum-field editor Daryl—with her. But direct express flights from Earth to the distant Ark system were _expensive. _Chisato finally had to end up compromising: she was to go ahead first on an express charter trip, and the rest of her film crew would follow, probably hitching a berth on a Federation transport. (And her producers only agreed to that much after Chisato agree to foot half the bill for her interstellar flight herself!)

But then the Federation went and announced it was pulling out of Expel entirely, and suddenly the Federation brass were unwilling to send her crew along. FNN then backpedaled as well, declining to foot the bill for any other express charter flights or, for that matter, giving her crew leave to head for Expel in the first place, effectively stranding them on Earth. They had even tried to lure Chisato back to Earth to boot.

(Well, maybe _lure _was the wrong word—_coerce _was probably of about the strength Chisato was looking for. After all, her producers hadn't been very happy with Chisato going to Expel in the first place. Lead morning anchors rarely ventured into war zones—let alone war zones that the government was trying to sweep back under the rug.)

Chisato's producers had thought that the threat of being cut off from FNN or Federation resources would be enough to scare her back to her anchor desk. What they _hadn't _expected was Chisato to breezily shrug off their concerns. Not only that, but then she proceeded to _thrive _on Expel, easily making her way all over the Expel countryside, knowing exactly where and when the developing stories were... while managing to stay well fed and healthy to boot.

(Why, it was almost as if she had _been _to Expel before!)

So, suffice it to say, it looks like it was going to have to be Madison-style guerilla news reporting, just like the good ole days.

_Yes, _Chisato thought to herself, _the good old days of going weeks on end without a proper shower, and sleeping on the ground, in the rain. _She smirked to herself. _Well, no one said the life of a reporter was going to be easy. _

Case in point, she was currently en route to Herlie—on foot, except when she could hitch a ride with one of those infrequent Expellian transports. In Herlie, one of her old comrades from the 'Chisato Net' days was waiting with a ferry to get her across to Lacour. Then it was only a short (ha!) week across the sea to Lacour.

(Having spent the better part of the last two years on high technology Earth, the slow pace was something of a rude reawakening.)

In Lacour, she was hoping to film a few background pieces, especially centering on the former Lacour Frontline. (Really, she was hoping to evoke the time back when the Lacour Frontline hadn't _only_ been a military base, and was a regular town with a name and everything—Talis. Such a pretty name, she always thought.)

And then it would be right back to the main story that was repeating itself all over Expel: the slow slide to absolute, crushing pessimism. Most of the populace had been concerned about Expel's future, and that was _before_ the Federation decided that they couldn't be bothered with Expel anymore.

As a journalist, Chisato knew it was important to try and maintain some distance from that which she reported on... But with that feeling of helplessness so prevalent on Expel these days, it was hard not to feel affected in some way. Not to mention a little responsible—she may not have been for as long as some, but she was still a citizen of the Federation.

Her thoughts having taken a darker turn, Chisato dropped her heavy camera bag to the side of the road with a sigh. Slipping her tablet into its holster, she dropped to sit down on the bag. Suppressing another sigh,

Chisato pulled out her water bottle and took a long sip. She tried (mostly in vain) to not think about how screwed Expel likely was.

_Well, maybe it's not all bad_, Chisato thought, as on the horizon she spotted another crudely build heraldic truck trundling her way. Standing, she stuck her thumb out—a universal sign of hitchhiking that had, like so many other Terran/Feddie cultural artifacts, become entrenched on Expel.

The great snorting truck came to an awkward stop, its driver—a heavy looking man with a giant brown beard—leaning towards the passenger side window. "Where you headed?" he called over the engine's rumbling.

"Herlie. You headed that way?" she called back.

The driver waved her towards the truck. "Come on."

Well, _now _Chisato was really getting on her way.

Speaking of things getting on their way.... It occurred to Chisato that the last of the Federation ships were due to leave today. _In fact_, she thought as she threw her gear into the back of the pickup, _the last ships'll probably be pulling out of orbit just about now. _She paused for a moment before sliding into the passenger's seat to glance up at the late afternoon sky.

**OOO**

**March 1st, 371 SD  
1201 EST (earth standard time)  
Bridge, EFS _Radiant_, in orbit around Expel**

"We'll be the last ship out, Commodore," Captain Mitchell said in an even tone.

(And Iria somehow found that fitting—the _Radiant_'s unofficial motto was 'First in, Last Out,' and had been since the First Lesonia War.)

Iria watched as the few other transports in orbit lazily pulled away. Once clear of Expel's gravity well, they all silently slipped into warp, as if winking out of existence.

"Commodore?" Captain Mitchell asked, once only the _Radiant _was left.

Iria sighed, taking one last lingering look at that little green orb... the same green little orb where most of her extended family—biological _and _adoptive—was remaining behind. "Do it," she said, her voice devoid of emotion.

Mitchell nodded. "Helmsman, one quarter sub-light until we're clear of Expel's gravity," she instructed. She leaned back into her seat. "Engage."

And framed by the star Ark, the _Radiant _slowly pulled out of Expel's orbit, and lumbered away from the little green planet.

**END CHAPTER 5**

**Author's Notes:** I just want to apologize to my readers at this point—this chapter has been mostly complete for months now. The first 3/4s or so flowed easily, but as the chapter started to rise to a crescendo, it just got harder and harder to strike the right tone. This combined with... certain personal difficulties caused the major delay. Well, at any rate, it's done now—please read and review.

Oh, and that Ronixis flashback was a late, late, _late _addition to the chapter. I'm interested to know the reaction to it—does it feel forced, does it break the flow of that scene?


	7. Hardball Politics

**CHAPTER 6: ****HARD BALL POLITICS**

**March 1st, 371 SD  
Mid-morning  
Guest Room, Cross Castle, Kingdom of Cross, Expel**

It only dawned on Claude the next morning. "I think I just ruined my career," he declared—quite unprompted—as he lay in bed and stared straight up at the ceiling.

Rena, draped over his left shoulder, groggily cracked open one eyelid. "Isn't it a little early to be talking about your _former _space forces career?" she asked.

Although she had meant the comment as a joke, it still didn't stop the blood from draining from Claude's face. She sighed. "Just keep reminding yourself that you did the right thing, honey," she advised, switching tracks. "Captain Mitchell and your mom both think so, otherwise they wouldn't have let you come back down at all. And all the volunteers think so, too, otherwise they wouldn't have come with you." She then snuggled in deeper against Claude's side. "Now, go back to sleep, or I'll cast Energy Net on you."

Although the threat was only half-serious (...probably) Claude nodded and (some of the color having returned to his features) obediently closed his eyes and leaned back...

...only for he morning's silence to be shattered by a very energetic knocking, followed shortly by a decidedly un-Rena-like string of curses.. As Claude sat up—and Rena flew out from the covers to hastily throw a robe over her nightclothes—the door flew open, and the Princess of Mars Hill swept into the room.

"Good morning, darlings!" Celine declared, not bothering to close the door behind her. "Now, we've got a lot of work to get to this morning, so I think it best if—" It was only at this point did Celine notice the half-dressed and otherwise groggy states of her two 'charges.' "Oh, I'm sorry," Celine said, one gloved hand flying to cover the perfect 'o' of her mouth, "Were you two still asleep?" she asked, honestly surprised.

Rena glared at Celine as she slipped on a pair of slippers. "And here I seem to have memories of _you _being the heavy sleeper of our group."

Celine breezily shrugged as she dropped into an overstuffed chair near the room's (currently unlit) fireplace. "That's because a dungeon full of treasures doesn't care if you plumb its depths at the break of dawn or the dark of night. I'm in politics now, Rena dear, and politicians have a nasty habit of knocking off early right after lunch." She theatrically tossed her hands up into the air. "Not that we get that much work done _before _lunch anyway..."

A frown creased Celine's delicate features, before she broke back into a sunny smile. "Well at any rate, we _do _have a lot of work to do today, and that starts with an audience with Chris and Father. So, hurry up, get ready. I'll wait," Celine commanded.

Claude and Rena exchanged looks, and the exact same thought occurred to them both at the same time: being royalty apparently agreed with Celine a little _too _well.

**OOO **

**Late morning  
Main Hall, Cross Castle**

The second that Claude and Rena were even somewhat presentable, Celine ushered them out from the guest room. The three then marched down the corridor from the guest room into the castle's main hall, then up the stairs toward the audience chamber. Any sense of nostalgia Claude and Rena may have had was quickly drowned out by Celine going on at length about the Cross government's efforts to quarter and feed the returning Federation volunteers.

"...But all this is only going to be a stop-gap for the time being," Celine continued. "We're going to need you to hammer out some sort of at least semi-official sounding treaty agreement soon, Claude, otherwise the lords and ladies we're imposing on for aide are going to start grumbling and complaining that the Federation volunteers are just free-loaders."

"But we're here to help," Claude protested.

Celine nodded patiently. "I know that, Claude. And Chris knows that, and so does Father. But it costs a lot to feed and maintain just the Cross army, Claude, and the crown is dependent on those lords and ladies to do that much already—something they're already not very happy about. If we add more demands on their resources without anything official, I don't doubt at least a few of them might start protesting... maybe even with weapons."

The thought that even just provisioning for the Federation volunteers might drive Cross into something approximating a civil war was not something Claude had even considered. But where else could he have taken the volunteers? The leaving Federation transports had dropped him and his men off at the site of the old EXCOM main campus (now, sadly, little more than a chain link fence surrounding a few dozen abandoned pre-fab buildings), with only what few personal effects and weapons they could carry. It was either a quick march to Cross for aid or starving out in the field...

"What sort of agreement would placate them?" Claude asked, sounding dubious.

Celine frowned. "Father and a few of the more hawkish among the nobility seem to favor out-right annexing your volunteers into the Cross army itself."

"I don't think we could do _that_," Claude protested, sounding appalled. Admittedly, he had never been the most stalwart adherent to the UP3, but putting Federation troops under the control of one local nation-state was a bit too far even for him.

Celine held up one gloved hand, forestalling any more of Claude's protests. "I know, darling. More importantly, that overt a power grab by Cross would no doubt only antagonize Lacour, possibly into action."

"Into... action?" Rena repeated, sounding aghast. "Would Lacour... Would Lacour really go to war over something like that?" she asked in disbelief. Enough that all Expel was facing the beast crisis! Any thought of a war between the two _allies_ on top of that was surely absurd...!

(Absurd in the most frightening way, Rena would later admit to herself. She had grown up in a time of unprecedented peace between Cross, El, and Lacour, where war between any of the three had been just a distant, unpleasant memory. A historical boogeyman, if you will, whose sudden reappearance was deeply unsettling.)

Celine shook her head. "No," she said after a moment's consideration, "I doubt they'd go_ that _far—they're stretched as thin as we are at the moment. But they would _not _be happy if Cross suddenly had a monopoly of Federation resources, enough that they might refuse any further international cooperation." She shook her head again. "And I don't need to tell you how much of a disaster that would be at this stage. We're barely holding our own as it is." For a moment, Celine looked incredibly tired.

(And for a moment, the exact same thought occurred to both Claude and Rena: being royalty was—despite all the perks—clearly taking a toll on Celine.)

"For that reason," Celine continued, "Chris and I have both been doing our best to convince Father to change his mind, but I don't doubt that the final push is going to be up to you, Claude." She inclined her head. "That's part of the reason that we're having this meeting this morning."

"Only part of the reason?" Rena asked, with a certain tightness. (Apparently she still hadn't quite forgiven Celine her morning wake-up call.)

"Well..." And here Celine's expression turned uncertain. "You'll see."

As the three crested the last stairwell onto the foyer before the audience chamber, Claude nodded. Well, I'll do what I can..." he promised. Even so, his expression was troubled. "But General Mackwell is the highest ranking officer among the volunteers. He should probably have the final say."

At this, Celine came to a stop on the stairs, turning back to look down at Claude. She shook her head. "We can definitely get some input from your general, but _you _need to be the point man on any treaty, Claude."

"Why?" Claude asked, although he got the distinct feeling that he wasn't going to like the answer.

At this point, Rena jumped back in. "It's like I said earlier, Claude: the volunteers are all only down here because their following _your _example," she explained.

"That's right," Celine agreed, nodding energetically. After a moment, a wicked glint entered her eyes and she added, "..._General."_

Claude's expression blanched immediately. "Please don't call me that," Claude replied immediately, hunching his shoulders and suddenly looking very uncomfortable.

Rena entwined her arm with Claude's. "That's right, Celine. You shouldn't tease Claude so much." Rena paused, and then an impish smile stole onto _her _face. "Besides," she continued, "Claude's former Space Force, so that would properly be '_Admiral _Kenni.'"

The look on Claude's face was positively _priceless._

**OOO**

**Later morning  
Audience Chamber, Cross Castle**

A bright smile broke across King Cross' wrinkled features. "Rena! Lieutenant Kenni!" he called, leaning forward from the throne. It showed his acclimation to Expel's off-world visitors that he barely tripped over Claude's (foreign) military rank. As the two presented themselves with a formal bow and a curtsey, King Cross sagely nodded. "Excellent, now we may begin in earnest."

At his right hand, standing just below the dais, young Prince Chris discreetly locked eyes with his wife. At Celine's nearly imperceptible nod, Chris lightly cleared his throat. "Father, perhaps we could begin by approaching Lieutenant Kenni with that matter you and I had discussed earlier?"

"Perhaps you are right, Chris," King Cross answered, looking considering. "Yes, I suppose we should clear up that matter first. Lieutenant Kenni, I realize that to come back down here to help us, you have had to leave your former organization. That sacrifice is great, and not one to be dismissed lightly. As such, I would like to offer you and your troops a position in the Cross Army."

The directness of the question threw Claude for a moment, but after a hasty glance over to Celine (who favored him with another of her nearly imperceptible nods) Claude bowed his head. "While I would consider it a great honor, your majesty, I'm afraid I must decline. Although we're technically no longer part of it, the rest of the volunteers and I are Federation through and through. I do swear to you here, though, that we will stand by Expel no matter what."

King Cross looked disappointed, but seemed to accept his answer anyway. "I suppose I can understand that."

The king looked like he as if he was about to continue, but Prince Chris coughed lightly. "Well, excellent, that settles that matter—we can draw up something official later on. Right now, we should move on with our other plan." He paused for a moment, before turning to his father. "Don't you think so, father?" he asked, sounding completely innocent.

"Plan?" Claude asked.

King Cross nodded, turning his gaze back to Claude and Rena. "We're calling a meeting. With the vast majority of the Federation forces having gone, Expel now needs to work closer together than ever before if we're going to solve this problem."

Prince Chris folded his arms, wrinkling the military cut jacket he was wearing. "We've already contacted both King Lacour and the El-government-in-Exile, and even representatives for the blue dolphins."

Claude could see where this was headed. "Then the Federation volunteers will be there, too."

**OOO**

**Blumio 12****th****, 1349 UCEC (United Church of Expel Calendar)  
Late Afternoon  
Southern Nature Preserve, Kingdom of Lacour, Expel**

It was surprisingly hot for an early spring day, and somehow even the shade of a Lacour forest did little to help. In the sweltering heat trudged the doctors Neuyman—Graft a'fore and Precis at rear—slowly dragging along a large wagon. On the bed of the wagon was a large metallic device, which looked roughly like a cross between the boiler from a steam engine and a radiator. Its decidedly low tech looks, however, were belied by several high-tech gauges and screens clearly scavenged from several Federation quad-scanners.

"Remind me again why we're out here?" Graft asked, as he shifted the heavy harness on his shoulder.

Precis' mood—already not in a great place—soured. "_You _were the one who said there was a chance that the purifier prototype would explode once the Kurtz effect hit critical!" she ground out as she continued to push the wagon along from behind. "And I'm in no mood to rebuild the workshop _again_."

(Precis, you see, had never quite forgiven him for the spectacular failure of the Graft engine. The Graft engine—designed to satisfy Graft's long held desire to create a heavier-than-air flying device in the long years before being introduced to Federation technology—had not only managed to catastrophically self-destruct, but had managed to catastrophically self-destruct on Precis' 16th birthday. Precis' birthday memories for that day consisted almost solely of, yes, rebuilding the workshop and parts of their house.)

"Only a _minor _chance!" Graft protested although, notably, he didn't stop tugging away at the front of the wagon.

The duo continued along for another quarter hour, before Precis called for a stop in a small clearing. "I suppose this will do," she said at last. The clearing was a good fifteen yards across, so the chances of a catastrophic purifier failure bringing the trees down on them seemed about as minimal as they were going to get.

"Thank Tria," Graft exclaimed, dropping the harness and sagging against the wagon.

Precis dropped her heavy backpack to the ground. It landed with a clunk—in addition to her tools, her bag also had her piston powered combat fists, just in case. She unzipped the top. "Come on out, Bobot," she called. Bobot popped out of the bag. He squinted up at the sun, before straightening and saluting Precis.

"I still don't see why Ashton couldn't come out and help us move this thing," Graft continued, sounding sulky. "I mean, what's the benefit of you two dating again if he doesn't come out and help his father-in-law to be move very large and very heavy equipment?"

Precis turned bright red. "T-that's... W-were not... He isn't—" She folded her arms. "He was _busy _helping the Linga militia, thank-you-very-much, and I'll ask you to mind your own business about my personal life!"

From his slumped position at the front of the wagon, Graft weakly waved a hand. "Yes, dear, if you like."

As Precis (and Bobot) climbed up into the wagon's bed and began fiddling with the prototype, she shook her head. "Besides, Dad, you need to work out more anyway," she chided.

Graft sniffed. "My _mind _is the only muscle that I need to exercise, thank you."

Precis' expression turned shifty. "Well, I suppose if you don't mind the beer belly, sure..." she muttered.

"What was that?" Graft asked, shoving himself back up to his feet.

Precis but on her best smile. "Nothing!" she declared cheerily. "Are you ready to get started?"

Graft came around to the side of the wagon, inspecting several of the dials and gauges. "Ready when you are, my darling little engineer."

It only took them another few minutes to get the prototype into working order. When everything was ready, Precis hopped off the wagon bed. "So, uh, I guess we can get started?" she asked, sounding a bit confused. It felt as if this moment should be more... _momentous_, especially if this thing _could _save Expel as advertised.

Graft didn't seemed concerned by any such thoughts, though, and casually flicked the purifier's ON switch. A few levers started to whir, and the entire machine started to hum. All the gauges and indicators slowly flickered to life, hovering on the low side.

"Is that it?" Precis asked.

Graft frowned. "Well, what did you expect? Sparks and a big gout of steam to—"

As if on cue, _several _gouts of steam burst forth from the machine, as well as a shower of sparks from several of the higher tech components. All the gauges and indicators jumped up dramatically. The sudden noise caused Precis and Bobot to jump.

"What's happening?" she asked, after she had recovered her composure.

"It's... working," Graft said, his voiced sounding awed... and a little frightened.

Precis wiped the back of her hand across her forehead, before exchanging looks with Bobot. "Isn't that the idea?" she asked, sounding dubious.

"Yes, yes, of course," Graft replied, sounding irritated, "I just didn't think that it was going to work quite so... _well_. _Or_ so quickly..."

As if to underscore his words, the prototype hummed again, and seemed to kick into another gear. All the dials and gauges quickly shot up to their maximum. A steam whistle on the top of the prototype let out a shrill call. Precis frowned. "Is that one of those good sounds?"

"No, no, no, no!" Graft shouted, less an answer to Precis' question than an exclamation of dismay. He tapped several of the indicators, as if he couldn't believe that the readings they were displaying were accurate.

"Dad...?" Precis asked. Her eyes were locked on the radiator grill looking bit on the front of the assembly. The air itself around the metal radiator blades had started to turn an odd sickly green...

Graft didn't answer, but instead started trying to turn the prototype down. When the machine didn't even seem to slow, he scowled, reached boldly into the device, and yanked out a mass of cables. The prototype started to hiss to a stop. The greenish glow from around the radiator blades started to dissipate.

After a few moments, Precis' heartbeat finally slowed. "That was a bit dramatic, don't you think?" she asked, holding one hand to her chest. When Graft didn't answer, she took a step closer. "Dad? Did you really—"

Graft however, held up a hand for silence, his head cocked to one side. It looked as if he was listening for something. "Do you hear that?" he asked.

Precis frowned. "No." In fact, she didn't hear anything, aside from her, Graft, and Bobot. The forest was quite suddenly ominously silent. She frowned. "Nothing at all, actually." A chill traveled up her spine.

"I was afraid of this..." Graft said slowly.

Precis' expression darkened. "Afraid of _what _exactly?"

"The purifier hit critical," Graft explained.

Precis looked skeptical. "Well, it didn't _blow_, so I'm willing to call that a win if you are..." she deadpanned.

Graft shook his head. "Part of the testing we were going to do today was to see how much concentrated heraldic pollution acts as a beacon for infected wildlife," he explained clinically.

Precis' expression blanched. "Beacon for infected..." she began, only for a look of horror to steal onto her face. "You mean like what happened at Salva!" she demanded.

Graft nodded, quickly picking up a nearby spanner and hefting it grimly. "Yes. A mass of the heraldic pollution in energy stone—be it naturally like in the Salva vein they found or, _apparently_, artificially in our purifier here—draws any nearby infected to it like a moth to a flame."

Precis stared at Graft blankly for a long section, before a boiling rage took over. "And you didn't think this would be _important _enough to mention!" she shouted. _If you had, I might have actually _tried _to talk Ashton into coming with us..._

Graft raised his hands defensively. "I never expected the prototype to work at _this _level! And before _right now_ it was just a theory!"

"Wonderful..." she muttered, as she raced back to her bag, "We're going to die because we were simply too _good _at inventing, lovely."

She was literally only steps away from her bag before a gray blur leaped out in front of her. A wolf growled at her—or rather, what _had _been a wolf before heraldic pollution had added a few extra claws, fangs, spikes (_Really, spikes? _Precis wondered to herself silently), and a pair of the nastiest red eyes she ever had the misfortune of seeing. With a howl, several more of its compatriots edged into the clearing as well.

"Dad?" Precis called, taking several large steps back from the alpha wolf squared off against her.

"Little... busy... at the moment... darling," he grunted out. Precis risked a glance back over her shoulder. Two of the wolves had him pinned against the purifier prototype. One of the wolves had its jaws locked with Graft's spanner.

"This... isn't looking good..." Precis muttered to herself.

But then a new shrill sound pierced the clearing. "BEEPBEEPBEEP!"

Precis' eyes widened. "Bobot!" she exclaimed in surprise.

Streaking in from somewhere on her left, Bobot's charged into battle. His legs were pumping like pistons, his eyes flashing as he overclocked his systems to speed to the rescue. At the last moment, Bobot leaped forward, his right fist extended and clenched into a fist. He shot forward like a missile right at the alpha wolf's chin...

...Only to bounce off harmlessly, managing only to slightly annoy the alpha wolf as it shook Bobot off with a toss of its head. Bobot went flying, beeps of distress echoing after him.

"Well, so much for the rescue..." Precis muttered.

"Glaive," a new voice called softly into the clearing. A wall of rock spires shot up between Precis and the wolves. "Stone Rain," the voice called again, and fire and stone rained down onto the wolves on the other side. The wolves shrieked, then whimpered, then ran off into the woods. Before Precis could even begin to collect herself, the voice called out a third time. "Magnum Tornado," it called this time, and the two wolves attacking her father were unceremoniously tossed away by sudden gale force winds, leaving Graft slightly mussed but otherwise unhurt.

Graft and Precis exchanged looks with one another, then both glanced towards the direction of their rescuer. Smiling amiable and looking for all the world like he was simply talking an easy nature walk, Noel Chandler walked into the clearing from the shadow of the trees. He waved a hand in greeting. "Hello," he said simply.

(He was obviously too humble to mention that he had just saved their lives, you see.)

"Noel!" they both exclaimed at once, picking themselves up and rushing over to him. "What are you _doing_ here!" Precis demanded happily, slugging him in the arm in (what she viewed) as camaraderie.

Noel winced; rubbing his now sore arm, he began to explain. As it turns out, Noel _had _been simply taking an easy nature walk... well, at least before the impromptu rescue, anyway.

(Also, Noel's idea of an easy nature walk would probably translate better as 'week long camping trip with minimal gear,' but that's besides the point.)

At any rate, Noel had broken away from the blue dolphin delegation's negotiation wrap-up in Lacour City to seek the outdoors before the delegation swung west for the big Lacour/Cross summit in Hilton. "It's all anyone is talking about anymore," Noel concluded. "Everyone is buzzing about what the Federation volunteers will be able to do." His expression blanched, and the tips of his ears curved down. "I'm starting to get worried that they might be their hopes up about what the remaining volunteers will be able to accomplish."

Graft nodded gravely. "Yes. There's only so much the volunteers can do, without the Federation backing them up with resources and materials." But not a lot of people on oh-so-desperate-Expel were going to be that discriminating at this point – there were some Feddies who had come back to save them, after all!

Precis folded her arms. "Well, I guess that means we have less than a week, then," she declared without preamble.

"A week until what?" Noel asked.

"The conference," Precis replied, as if the answer was the most obvious thing in the world.

Graft frowned. "What about the conference?" he asked dubiously.

Precis looked less than impressed. "_Clearly_ we're going to the conference, where we can explain in person what you and I just accomplished here with the purifier (aside from the part where we were nearly killed), and get them to use it in a massive plan to put an end to the beast crisis once and for all," she explained in a pained tone.

"You _do _realize that we weren't _invited _to the conference, right, dear?" Graft asked in a brittle tone.

(Privately, Graft viewed that as something of a snub, you see. Hell, what was left of the Linga Research Board was invited, and they weren't even really an organization anymore!)

"Details!" she scoffed, dismissing the concern with a wave of her hand. "If all else fails, I'm sure that Noel can get us in." And here she turned to Noel, putting on her (according to her) 'most winningist' smile in the process. "Right, Noel?" she asked sunnily.

Noel started at being so suddenly put on the spot. "Uh... Uh, I suppose I could talk with my colleagues in the delegation..." Noel answered uncomfortably, scratching his cheek as he thought about it.

This was apparently enough of an answer for Precis. "Fantastic!" she proclaimed without hesitation. "So, then, that leaves us about a week to get this thing working properly again," she continued, smacking the now-inoperable purifier prototype with a hand. "And then later, the fact that the Kurtz effect works faster than we thought only helps us to structure it for a large scale."

"Large scale?" Noel asked, his ears twitching.

At this point, Precis spun around on her heel, looking fired up. She clenched a fist in front of her. "Yes! We'll need to design and start work on a new model of purifier, one powerful enough to absorb _all _the heraldic pollution on Expel!" She then broke into what would charitably be called a mad cackle.

(And someplace, somewhere in this universe or the next, even the mad scientist side of Indalecio was duly impressed by her sudden outburst.)

Noel and Graft exchanged looks. The last time she had sounded like this, she had (more or less) single-handedly designed and built Expel's first interstellar craft and had led the gang halfway across the galaxy to the bluesphere.

(...That Precis' ship—the _Longshot—_had unceremoniously crashed upon reaching the bluesphere was but a trifling detail… or so Graft and Noel sincerely hoped.)

**OOO**

**Blumio 18****th****, 1349 UCEC (United Church of Expel Calendar)  
Morning  
Entrance to Hilton Meeting Hall, Port of Hilton, Kingdom of Lacour, Expel**

As it turned out, Noel _couldn't _get Precis and Graft into the conference. Although the entire blue dolphin delegation had no qualms with trying to help the good doctors out, the officials at the conference weren't as supportive. While they had been told Noel would be accompanying the blue dolphins, they were unwilling to admit two additional non-dolphin hangers-on in with the delegation.

Fortunately, there was Bowman.

"What in Tria's name are you two doing here?" he exclaimed, marching directly past the security at the entrance and out to where they stood.

"Bowman!" Precis said, looking immediately cheered. They exchanged a quick hug, before Bowman energetically shook Graft's hand. "Oh, you know," Precis continued, "just trying to get into the super important conference so we can help save Expel from disaster." She shrugged. "The usual."

Bowman nodded sagely, before jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the security guards. "They giving you trouble getting in?" he asked.

Precis nodded. "Yup."

Graft sniffed, folding his arms. "It's almost as if they don't know who Dr. Graft Neuyman is!" he declared, his delicate sensibilities having just taken too much.

"Welp, follow me," Bowman declared, before turning on his heel and marching towards the entrance.

This time, when the guards trying to stop them, Bowman waved his delegate badge, made some a vague growl in the back of his throat, and kept walking, the two doctors close on his heels. The guards, sufficiently cowed, then waved them on (significantly, after they were long past).

"That... was surprisingly easy," Graft said.

Bowman shrugged, not breaking his stride. "You just have to know how to handle them," he explained breezily as they three walked into the cavernous meeting hall.

In order to accommodate the huge numbers of delegates making up each of the five (well, considering the El delegation, maybe more like four and a half...) major parties, the meeting hall was actually a converted warehouse. Two, actually, if truth be told: a shared wall between two warehouses had been knocked out, creating a impressive theater-like space. Down the center of the space and number of tables had been set up for the delegate, each arrayed surrounding a central lectern for each faction. On either side of the main hall were bench risers, set back behind velvet ropes for spectators. On the far side of the hall—opposite the main entrance and just in front of a wall of newly installed windows—was the head table, where the presiding officer would be (hopefully successfully) to moderate the proceedings.

"You could hardly tell that it was a fish packing warehouse less than a month ago..." Precis wondered quietly to herself.

"Hmm?" Bowman asked, glancing back.

"Nothing, nothing," Precis replied, waving off the question. "Just talking to myself."

Bowman just nodded, and turned back to leading the way. After a moment, though... "How's Ashton doing?" he asked, his tone as even as if he had simply been asking about the weather.

Even so, Precis couldn't help but blushing a bright red. _Well, of course Bowman knows,_ she chided herself, _Ashton was crashing at his house before... before..._

"Good," she blurted quickly, her voice a little too high. "Uh, yeah, good, he's good. He's trying to find the three of us lodgings for the night, actually, right now." She scratched the back of her head. "Heh, should have tried to make some reservations before coming into town, you know?"

Graft cast a sidelong look at Precis. "Anyway..." he broke in quickly, sensing Precis' discomfort, "How'd you get a delegate pass, Dr. Jean?" he asked, changing the subject.

Bowman shrugged. "The mayor of Linga more or less press-ganged me into it," he continued, as the trio pulled up to tables reserved for the Linga group, "Chiefly, I suspect, because I'm one of the few important people who never got around to leaving Linga... just like Keith here!" he added as an afterthought, as he dropped into the chair next to Linga's resident linguist.

"Don't drag me into your delusions, Bowman Jean," Keith deadpanned, as he shook hands with Graft and smiled at Precis, "And don't let the mayor hear you talk like that, either," he cautioned, _sotto voce._

Bowman waved off Keith's concern. "You worry too much, Keith. I'm practically an institution in Linga," he declared, kicking up his feet onto the table. "Who else is the mayor going to get to replace me in our part of the delegation?"

As Bowman and Keith then settled into what sounded like a (well-rehearsed) friendly argument, Precis let her attention wander. Her father was already embroiled in a glaring contest with parts of the former Linga Research Board—no surprise there. Up ahead, Princess Rosalie and her father sat with Leon's parents... although Precis was surprised that Leon wasn't with them

(In fact, Precis didn't see Leon anywhere...)

But she did spot a number of her other friends. Across the room, towards the front, Claude and Rena were sitting with the Federation volunteers. Sitting just in front of the Cross delegation, Claude had turned around was in an animated discussion with Celine and Prince Chris. When Claude caught her eye, he offered a little wave—

(Yes_,_ her heart _did_ still skip a beat, Precis was a one man lady, happy with Ashton, and pretty much completely over Claude, but that crush had lasted for _years_, and some reflexes died hard, thankyouverymuch!)

—and nudged Rena at his side. When Rena turned and saw Precis she broke into a huge smile and moved to get up... but then a messenger rushed over to the four of them. She shot Precis an apologetic look (which Precis acknowledged with a 'what can you do' shrug) and was quickly drawn back into what looked like a fairly serious discussion.

Noel looked to be introducing several of the blue dolphin delegates to several of the other delegates at other tables. Precis watched as he smoothed over several misunderstandings even as he was just making the rounds. She scratched her chin thoughtfully. _You know, he'd never ever consider it, but I think Noel would actually make a pretty good politician._

(It was his easygoing smile, really. It was just so damn trustworthy!)

But the biggest surprise for Precis was seeing Chisato at the back of the room, near the door. She had several different pieces of recording equipment and an open laptop on a small desk. When Precis spotted her, Chisato was slowly panning a hand-cam back and forth over the hall, apparently narrative one of her news pieces. At first she wasn't sure that Chisato had seen her but then without stopping her narration or breaking her anchor's poise, Chisato offered Precis a very friendly wink. _An anchor's work is never done, I suppose_, Precis thought as she smiled back, _but I didn't even realize she was on Expel again!_

**OOO**

**Mid-Morning  
Hilton Meeting Hall, Port of Hilton, Kingdom of Lacour, Expel**

All at once there was a commotion at the front of the room as, from a side door, the presiding officers marched in. Precis settled back into her chair and watched as the three man group took steps at the head table. The presiding officers were all mayors, one each from Cross (Elder Regis), Lacour (Mayor Rol), and even the mayor of Oruba (Glu'glan). As the host city for the meeting (and as an a concession to Lacour to even get the conference in the first place...) Mayor Rol would be acting as the lead moderator.

After Mayor Rol banged his gavel and brought the room to order, each of the three officers made some opening remarks (snore), then opened the floor for the opening remarks of each of the delegations (double snore), and then there was a fifteen minute recess (and Precis was unconscious).

Graft discreetly elbowed Precis back to consciousness just as things were picking back up. "Hrk," she snorted groggily (perhaps a bit louder than was polite), looking disoriented. "Whad I'd miss...?" she asked blearily.

Graft shot her a disapproving stare, and nodded back towards the front of the room where Princess Rosalie of Lacour was already well into her speech outlining Lacour's plan to deal with the beast crisis.

(The fact that Lacour was outlining _its _plan first was another one of those concessions.)

"...can only be one reasonable course of action for this esteemed body to consider. The greatest weapon that Expel has ever—"

(And here there was a slight pause, and for a second Precis thought she had been about to say it was the greatest weapon Expel had ever 'seen'—obviously no longer true thanks to the Federation.)

"—_developed_," Rosalie continued instead, "was the Lacour Hope. And although the Hope was tragically lost at sea before it could prove to be the instrumental turning point in the Sorcery Globe war that it so rightly was—"

(And _there _was as fine a bit of revisionist history as Precis had ever heard!)

"—There is no doubt a new Hope is the most powerful weapon at Expel's disposal at this juncture. And with the Federation no longer... present to protest the development of new weapons, now is the time to develop a second Lacour Hope.

"In fact," Rosalie continued, "I can see no reason why we don't create a system of Hope-style weapons across Expel. The Federation was kind enough to secure much of the underground system of the Hoffman ruins before they left, so Lacour will have no problems supplying energy stones to develop the weapons."

"It is of course needless to mention," she began, apparently still intent on mentioning it anyway, "that_ this _plan—designed by Expellians, _for _Expellians—requires little input from any... _foreign_ powers."

And at this point there was no missing the distrustful stink eye with which she favored the Federation volunteers across the room.

"Therefore, it is the stance of the Lacour Kingdom that this is the best solution at hand for—"

"Point of order," someone from the Cross delegation suddenly called. Precis was mildly surprised to see it was _Celine _of all people. Barely waiting for any acknowledgment from Mayor Rol, Celine continued, "Princess Lacour, need I remind you that these fine men and women from the Federation that you suddenly seem to have an issue with have _voluntarily _given up everything they know and love if only to _help us_ with our problem?" Celine's expression turned flinty. "I'd ask you to keep that in mind when discussing our esteemed colleagues."

Rosalie—who had seemed as surprised as Precis that suddenly Celine was speaking up—picked her next few words carefully. "I... _apologize_ if anyone was offended, for none was intended." A calculating look stole into her eyes as she appraised Celine. "And as much as I appreciate the sacrifice of these volunteers, the bottom line is that the Federation _proper _has left Expel behind.

"Ultimately," Rosalie continued, gaining steam, "it will be up to _our _technologies and abilities to solve this crisis." She nodded to herself, apparently having found her rhythm again. "And there is nothing more advanced in Expel's arsenal right now than the Lacour Hope." She then turned her attention back to Celine, as if daring her to protest again. "Wouldn't you agree, Princess Celine?"

But Celine seemed ready for that. "Admittedly, the Lacour Hope _is _the most powerful weapon Expel has right now," she conceded. "Cross is just unsure that a new Lacour Hope—that a _weapon—_is what is needed right now," she explained in an even manner.

Rosalie's eyes narrowed. "Oh?" (And Precis spotted an uncertain look pass across Celine's face before Rosalie continued.) "Cross seemed a little less concerned with 'new weapons' when it was the Federation and_ its _weapons riding to the rescue of Salva."

Celine frowned. "That's not what I—"

But Rosalie offered her no respite. "Or is Cross' hesitance because we're talking about a weapon that _Lacour _developed?"

(And here Precis imagined that she had heard a loud bang, because it seemed that the trap had just swung shut. And from Celine's expression—suddenly all thunderclouds—she felt the same way.)

Rosalie continued. "I had thought that this conference was about unity and working _together _for the betterment of Expel, old rivalries put aside."

For a long second, Celine was silent, just glaring at Rosalie. Finally, she seemed to make up her mind. "In that case," Celine began, "I suppose that _I _should apologize if I gave a different impression." Judging from the expression on Celine's face, the words apparently tasted like ashes. "Working together _is _the goal of the conference..."

Celine trailed off as someone tugged on her sleeve (from where Precis was sitting, she couldn't she who). A look of relief (and then of mischief) flashed across Celine's face, before she turned her attention to Mayor Rol. "And in the spirit of working together," Celine ad-libbed, "I'd like to turn the floor over to my colleague. Leon?"

Precis watched as Leon stood up from the Federation delegation. _So that's where Leon was,_ Precis thought to herself. He had been sitting just out of her line of sight the Federation, instead of over with the Lacour delegation like she had been expecting.

Mayor Rol nodded to Leon, as he marched up to the Federation's lectern. "Well, go ahead, young man and—"

Leon's expression soured. "That's _Doctor Geeste_," he corrected testily.

Mayor Rol gave him a pained look, but relented. "_Dr. Geeste_, then. The floor is yours."

Leon nodded. "Thank you. As the former head of the Lacour Special Weapons Lab, and the lead designer of the original Lacour Hope, I hope you all will take what I have to say with the utmost seriousness: developing another, or two more, or _ten _more Lacour Hopes _will not solve this problem_."

Such a stern warning set the hall immediately to murmuring among itself. (For her part, Princess Rosalie looked like she was about ready to slap irons on Leon as a traitor.)

"He's certainly cutting right to the quick," Graft muttered.

"That's my boy," Bowman whispered back, proudly.

"The problem is twofold. One, even assuming that current heraldic pollutions stay level, the only way to completely eradicate the threat of further beast attacks using Hope weapons is to completely eradicate the supply of potential beasts. In other words, immediately eradicate all animals on Expel. Damages to the biosphere would be irrevocable, and ultimately doom us as well—it would be the end of all life on Expel as we know it.

"Two," Leon continued, barely waiting for the first point to settle in, "and by far the greater concern, by all accounts, heraldic pollution levels are still _rising_. More and more energy stone is reacting, and in turn releasing more pollution, meaning these attacks are only going to get worse. Even more trouble, recent research seems to confirm that in sufficiently high concentrations, heraldic pollution theoretically could even begin to affect Expellian and blue dolphin psyches."

(And a few chairs away, Rena shifted uncomfortably at the sudden deluge of memories of a beast called Alen-Tax.)

Leon leaned forward. "So, even assuming that we _could _manage to wipe out enough of Expel's biosphere in time to stop the current crop of beast attacks, if nothing is done to treat the _cause _and not just the _symptoms _it won't matter, for we'll be next."

And now Leon did pause, to let the seriousness of the situation sink in. "There needs to be another solution," Leon declared finally.

_This _was the moment—Precis' excitement got the better of her. "And we've got it!" she blurted out, jumping to her feet. As every head in the meeting hall swung toward her, it only then occurred to that she had perhaps violated parliamentary procedure. "Uh..." she stammered.

Fortunately, there was Bowman. Languidly getting to his feet, he belated raised one hand. Mayor Rol banged his gavel. "T-the chair recognizes Bowman Jean of the Lacour delegation."

"Mister Chairman, I believe one of my colleagues has something she would like to say." A half beat, in which no one said anything, then, "So if no one objects, I'll turn the floor over to my colleague here... Dr. Precis Neuyman."

There was another long pause. Bowman coughed discreetly into his hand. "That means go ahead, Precis..." he added softly.

"R-right!" Precis replied quickly, awkwardly sidling up to the nearest lectern. (She would later realize that, with Princess Rosalie still at Lacour's lectern, she had accidentally co-opted the blue dolphin delegation's. Fortunately they were so laid back that they didn't feel the need to raise a fuss. And Noel was too polite to point that out when she was so clearly flustered!)

Precis cleared her throat lightly. "My father and I... er, uh, Dr. Graft Neuyman and I, Precis Neuyman, uh, a doctor as well... uh," she began haltingly. _Stop screwing up, stop screwing up, stop screwing up!_ her mind started screaming over and over again. "We, uh... we developed a... _thing._.." she continued awkwardly. _That's still screwing up! _her mind hammered.

It was at this point that she noticed a movement off to the right. Someone slipped into the meeting hall and took a seat at the far side of one of the risers. The two dragons jutting out from his back made it quite obvious who had arrived. He had an interested look on his face, and at his encouraging smile upon seeing Precis at the lectern...

She took a deep breath, and began again. "My name is Dr. Precis Neuyman. Working with my father, Dr. Graft Neuyman, we have developed a working device that is capable of absorbing the ambient heraldic pollution released from the mineral we call the energy stone. This purifier device can and _will _end the beast crisis," she declared, in her best 'academic lecture' voice.

Suffice it to say, no one was expecting _that _bombshell. And by the time Precis had finished explaining the broad strokes of how the purifier operated, the number of jaws that _hadn_'t hit the floor could be counted on one hand.

Into the silence after she finished, Mayor Rol was the first to regain his wits. "I think on that we'll adjourn for the day." His gavel banged home.

**END CHAPTER 6**

**Author's Notes: **And so it lives! _Federation Morning _is, I suppose, not quite dead yet. The completion of this chapter puts us, more or less, back to where we were before the great Computer Crash of '09. And it only took a year! Isn't that just amazing!/sarcasm

(Well, actually, that's not true—originally this chapter and the next were both just one incredibly long chapter, but as it ballooned into some sort of Frankenstein's monster of politics, I just _had _to break it in half. So, _next _chapter means we're all officially caught up.)

Not that this (and the next chapter) were particularly _easy _to write—I had real troubles trying to figure out a way to introduce the conference in the first place. I _finally _had a break-through though, and that's part of the reason why this chapter is so Precis-heavy. Out of all my potential viewpoint characters at that meeting, I feel like Precis had the most straightforward-yet-still-involved view of the bunch, and thus the least confusing and most entertaining (...hopefully). And it flowed so well from the scene in the forest with the purifier~!

Anyway, if any of you are still out there, please, review and tell me if I've still what I like to call the 'Fed Morning touch.' Oh, and if the political back and forth between Rosalie and Celine worked.


End file.
